Page 22 of Off the Trail

On my way back from carrying a load, I run into Shawn in jogging attire. He’s shiny with sweat, the veins in his forearms pronounced. I brush tree bark off my front and wave at him.

His face lights up. I can pretend he’s glad to see me, specifically, from that expression, and then he says, “Hey, I was hoping to see you,” and my gay little heart gallops with anticipation.

“Oh, yeah?” I ask, trying to sound normal.

“Yeah, the Laurels’ first playoff game is tomorrow afternoon. Is the invitation to watch the game at your place still open?”

Right. He only wants me for my television. But since I was going to try to catch the game anyway, I find myself nodding. “Of course. Come on over.” My voice sounds strangely calm, as if former professional baseball players come over to watch playoff games with me all the time.

“You live over there, right?” He points accurately. I love a man with a good sense of direction.

“Yep, take the road around the lake and eventually you’ll run into my place.”

“Sweet. See you tomorrow.” He grins and jogs on.

“See you tomorrow,” I mumble to his back.

This is fine.

Chapter 9

Blaze

I’m infected with nervous energy from the moment my eyes pop open on Saturday morning. Maybe it’s because I slept later than usual. Last night I’d stayed up binging the wild card series highlights to catch up before today’s game. I was half watching the highlights, half waiting around for Brooke to get home, but she must have returned after I finally went to bed since her car’s parked next to my truck and her bedroom door is closed.

I start making pancakes for my little sister because that’s something that makes me feel like myself, instead of a guy wandering around in the woods literally not knowing what to do because a man I’m too fond of might be coming over.

“What’s all this?” Brooke asks when she shuffles into the kitchen. It’s late morning, but she’s still in her pajamas. “Pancakes?”

“And Canadian bacon.” Her favorite. “I can make eggs, too, if you want.”

“What’s with the feast?” she asks, grabbing a plate and taking some bacon.

“I felt like cooking,” I say. “And I’ve barely seen you this week.” Even though I already sampled the pancakes to make sure they came out all right, I help myself to another serving, plus a few slices of bacon and a handful of blueberries from the fridge. A dollop of yogurt, a drizzle of local maple syrup and I’m satisfied my breakfast could compete with anything of Nolan’s—if not in style, at least in flavor.

We take our plates and sit on the couch. The kitchen table is where we ought to be eating, but it’s currently full of books and mail and receipts—the clutter of life that neither of us is particularly good at keeping tidy. We tend to pile everything up and then do a big organizing day every month or so. We’re mid-process, which means nowhere to eat except off the coffee table in the living room. It feels comfortable anyway.

After Mom and Dad, it seemed important for us to eat together rather than separately in our rooms or something, so I made it a point to share dinner every night. But instead of sitting awkwardly across the little kitchen table, we’d put on a television show and just be together with no pressure to talk. We worked our way through a bunch of ’90s sitcoms and a few soapy dramas. Half the time after the show and meal were finished, we’d stick around and talk about our days, anyway. Those are some of my best memories from those hard years right after the plane crash when I was completely out of my element, scared to death of doing something wrong, not wanting to lose my sister, too.

So now, sitting next to her on the brown couch Mom got at a clearance sale at the mall in Portland, beside the battered heavy wood coffee table Dad made with his own two hands when we were little, I feel utterly at home.

“Oh my god, these pancakes are amazing,” Brooke says. “New recipe?”

“Not really. We’re low on milk, so I threw in some kefir instead.” My sister became a kefir fan in college, and I have to admit I’ve grown fond of the stuff, too.

“You’re making them this way for the rest of time,” she says.

“Done. So, I was going to ask what you’re doing after we go see the progress on the house.”

“Oh, right.” She frowns at her half-empty plate, sets it down on the table.

“Something up?”

“No, it’s just...there’s something I’ve been meaning⁠—”

The landline rings, cutting her off.

I glance at the phone, then back to her. Whatever my sister has to say is more important than whoever’s calling, but she smiles with closed lips and gestures for me to pick up.