Winning With Him by Lauren Blakely

Declan

Heels click-clack across the hardwood floor as I try to decide if I like this place.

I wander through the living room while the realtor, Avery, gestures to the floor-to-ceiling windows and the city beyond as Manhattan unveils itself. “And you have a fantastic view of Central Park. Soon the spring flowers will be in bloom,” she says, her pretty soprano voice floating across the one-bedroom apartment on Fifth Avenue. “The tulips are gorgeous, and the hyacinths too.”

I wince.

“Or maybe you don’t like flowers,” Avery says, reading my expression quickly.

“They’re fine.” What the hell can I say?

Oh, hey, hyacinths remind me of this story a guy told me late one night in bed, about Apollo and his lover who turned into a hyacinth, and now I can’t live near some blue flowers.

Yeah, that sounds great. I go with, “The view is great. Nice neighborhood too.”

“There’s a great organic cafe around the corner. It’s hard to beat if you like that type of food,” she says.

I give her a faint smile as I check out the kitchen. “That’s great.”

Fitz’s husband hooked me up with Avery. Dean met her at his bar and she gets high marks from the referral service for gay- and gay-friendly realtors in the city. Avery has busted her ass so far. When I called her from Florida a few days ago and said I needed a short-term rental in the city immediately, in just a few hours, she found me a place to rent for the first month here.

Now, on my one day off before the season opener, she’s taken me to six places. She’s an Energizer bunny of a realtor. Nothing seems to get her down, even though I haven’t fallen for any of the apartments for sale.

Maybe I’m not in the mood to like anything. Perhaps my wiring isn’t working that way right now.

She keeps talking as she gazes out the window. “I’m partial to the park, of course. My wife and I were married there.”

“That’s great,” I say listlessly.

That seems to be all I can manage. That’s great. That’s great. That’s great. It sounds so hollow, but that’s been my mood.

“Sorry,” I say with more vim and vigor this time. “It is great.”

At least, I hope I’m vimming and vigoring.

Avery flashes a bright smile. “Let’s check out the rest of the place. How do you think you’ll like playing in New York City?”

“Hard to say. I’ve only ever played as a visiting team. Sorry about that,” I say.

She gives me a curious look, then she waves aside the apology. “Nothing to be sorry for. Not so long as you get us the World Series.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Avery chatters more about the building, undeterred by my mood. She’s been undeterred all morning—high marks indeed.

When we head into the bedroom, I stare at the empty space, imagining what it would look like with a king-size bed.

Imagining the bed.

Imagining the company—and I don’t mean for sex.

I mean the falling asleep with someone. The waking up with someone. The November with someone.

I look away, turning to the main bath.

“Do you like it?” Avery asks as I pass her.

I give a half-hearted shrug. “When can I move in?”

She shoots me a sympathetic look. “Are you sure, Declan? You don’t seem crazy about it.”

It’s funny, the realtor’s concern. I didn’t expect someone trying to sell me something to care about my state of mind.

But maybe it’s just that obvious. Maybe I need to try harder to move on.

I wish I were as good at ignoring shit as I want to be.

“Yeah. It’s just something I need to do.” I pat the doorway to the bathroom. “This’ll do.”

“This will be your home. It’s a big deal. It shouldn’t just ‘do.’ I’m happy to show you as many places as you want to see,” she says. “Do you want to see something in Chelsea or the West Village where there’s more of a scene, maybe?”

I shudder, hating the thought. “No. I actually like being closer to work.” The Upper East Side has the benefit of proximity to the ballpark in the Bronx.

“If you want it, we can move forward and close in a month.”

Permanent.

I would own this pad.

But that’s what this is—my new permanent life in New York. Three thousand miles away from family. Three thousand miles away from my father. And three thousand miles away from the man I miss.

But it’s also across the street from those fucking hyacinths, and I can’t. I just can’t be that close.

“You’re right,” I say. "Show me something else.”

She sweeps her hand toward the door. “We’ve got a whole city to tackle.”

The next place is off Park Avenue, with a view of the East River. The kitchen is modern, the living room is spacious, and the building has a private gym. It’s a block away from a great sushi place, she says.

But mostly it’s the view I’m buying.

Or really, the view I’m not buying.

“I’ll take it,” I say, and try to focus on what I’ll enjoy about this new place. The same thing I hate about it. That it’s three thousand miles away from San Francisco.

Later that day, I head to meet my mom and her husband for lunch. I bought tickets for them both to come out here for Opening Day, and they arrived last night. I picked this restaurant in the fifties for Tyler—he is second generation Korean-American and loves to check out Korean spots wherever he travels.

As the scent of bibimbap and garlic wafts around me, I find them at a table in the corner. Mom stands to throw her arms around me. “You look the same,” she says, giving me a once-over.

I arch a questioning brow. “Did you expect me to look different?”

I let go of her as Tyler tugs me in for an embrace as well. I love this dude. He’s never afraid to give a full-on hug. No toxic masculinity from him, he likes to say.

“I expected you to look different because you play for the enemy,” Tyler says, deadpan.

I roll my eyes. “Wait. I bought tickets for the two of you and you’re not even going to root for my new team?”

Tyler shakes his head, adamant. “I’ve been a diehard Cougars fan for ages. I don’t think I can root for the New York Comets. It’s against my nature.”

“And you, Mom?” I stare sternly at her.

“Ummmm,” she says.

I wave a hand. “I’m your son. You need to root for me.”

She holds up her hands in surrender. “I’m doing my best.”

I shake my head as I join them at the table. “And to think I got you seats on the first baseline. Guess I’m sorry about that too.”

“We promise to enjoy them,” Mom answers, but the rest of her words fade away when I key in on my own.

Sorry.

I’ve said it over and over today—for little things, things I’m not even really sorry for.

Maybe sorry is on my mind. Maybe it hasn’t left my mind since I sent Grant that text.

“So how was the last week of spring training?” Tyler asks after we order. “Was it an adjustment after four years with the Cougs?”

“Do you miss your Cougar friends?” Mom asks. “It’ll be hard not seeing Crosby and Chance, I’m sure.”

Their questions all seem so normal, no different than any conversation we’ve had about baseball, about work, about friendships.

But there’s so much they don’t know.

So much I keep from them so they won’t worry.

I flash a smile and tell a massive lie that twists inside me. “The last week was great.” I can segue into the truth, and it unknots some of the tight coil inside me. “Tucker is fantastic. Brady’s a cool dude. The new manager is great. It’s all good.”

No lies there. Those specific details of spring training are completely honest.

But I don’t tell Mom how awful the last week has been.

I’ve never been good about telling her how things have been with my dad. She doesn’t need to know what he’s like these days because he’s no longer her burden to bear. After trying so damn hard to save him when I was younger, she’s free of him.

Nobody fought harder to make a marriage work than my mother. Nobody tried more patiently to help an addict. She did everything to get my father help, but he lashed out at her with his baseless accusations. He hurled horrible lies at her and questioned her constantly.

When she finally left him, she was able to have the life that she deserves. She was able to meet Tyler, a man she can have an open, honest relationship with.

I want her to have this happiness, and I won’t fuck it up by telling her how my father turned my spring training into the latest episode of family bribery.

After lunch, Tyler takes off to catch up with a friend he grew up with in San Diego, and Mom suggests we go for a walk. We chat briefly about the city as we stroll past The Plaza toward the park, but she doesn’t seem interested in small talk.

“You seem distracted, sweetheart,” she says quickly, her eyes sharp, her tone concerned.

“Do I?”

She rubs my shoulder. “I can read you. You’re my kid—my one and only, so I’m not distracted trying to read other ones,” she says with a laugh that fades back into concern. “Is it about your dad?”

I straighten, coming alert. “What makes you ask that?” Does she know he showed up in Florida? Does she know I cracked open my wallet again?

With a weary sigh, she says, “I heard through the grapevine that he’s been having some trouble with his business.” My worry inches higher, but then she goes on. “It seems, though, that he just got a loan. I didn’t know if that had been weighing on you.”

Ah. Nothing to worry about it. He framed my money as a loan.

Perfect.

“No, that’s not it. I just . . .” I think about what I really want to ask her. How much I want to tell her what’s weighing on me. And I find the simplest way in. “Did you ever regret something, Mom?”

A soft smile is her answer. “Of course. But I try to live without regrets. To take care of things that need attending in this moment. What happened that you regret?”

Everything.

And one thing.

The thing I’m beyond sorry about.

“I handled something badly,” I admit as we walk along the park, an early spring breeze blowing past us, a bus trundling by.

“With someone?”

A pang lodges in my ribs—or maybe the constant pang I feel deepens, tunnels further into my soul. “Yeah. This guy I like,” I say, grateful it’s so easy to talk to her. It’s always been this way—she’s the polar opposite of my dad. Not least in how she handled it when I came out to her.

Thank you for telling me. I love you. I’m here for you. I’ll listen. What do you need from me?

That was all I needed. She’s always been the one I could talk to about relationships, but I haven’t done it often. Hardly any man has warranted a mom talk.

“I met someone, but it didn’t work out for . . . many reasons. And I think I could have handled the breakup better.”

She rubs my shoulder harder. “Maybe you should tell him that?”

It sounds easy, but I know it won’t be.

It is necessary, though.

So damn necessary.

That night when I’m alone in my rented apartment, I pick up my phone and I dial Grant’s number.