Saving Laurel

25. Books & Baseball

Wes Thompson

"So, you and Laurel, you a "thing"?" My mom asks leaning into the doorway of my room after Laurel leaves.

Laughing through my nose, I shake my head, denying the accusations.

Her eyebrow raises because of course she doesn't believe me. Laurel's cute definitely. And if I was anyone other than me I might stand a chance but I'm me. Plus Laurel intimidates me a little.

"Mhm." She hums, pushing herself out of the door frame. "Don't forget to call your dad."

And then she's gone and the tic that happens makes me launch the pen I was writing with across my room.

Perfect.

Ya know, because I wasn't using that or anything.

Fetching my pen, which is more difficult than it should be because it hit the top of my dresser and rolled to the back where a tiny crack sits between the back of the dresser and the wall.

I should have just left it there. That's what anyone else would have done. But not me. No, of course not. Somehow leaving that pen there is the cause to a million different scenarios that end up with my mom getting hurt so I shimmied the ridiculously heavy dresser away from the wall and smashed myself into the small space between the bookshelf that sits beside it and got the stupid pen.

And then I got distracted. Go figure.

A book my dad got me about baseball. An old classic with worn out pages and layers of dust soaked into the white cover until it yellowed. I never read it, shelving it alongside some of the other baseball books he's gotten me over the years. 

I love baseball, playing it definitely, but if I'm being honest I love the piano more. But I don't tell my dad that.

But I pulled the book from the shelf, leaned back against my dresser that I had pushed back into its spot and read the first two chapters.

It's not bad, I gotta give the old man some credit there. And with that thought comes guilt because I know I should call him. My mom's been nagging me. But more than that it's been close to a month since I've seen him and besides the texts we send back and forth I haven't spoken to him in a couple weeks.

So I set the book on my windowsill that acts as my nightstand and fish my phone out of my pocket before I have too much time to think about it.

If I think about it too much I'll get anxious, and then my tics will increase, and my OCD will start to pull all of those thoughts to the forefront of my mind, pointing and screaming at them until I can't ignore them and that's basically the last thing I want to happen.

So I find his name amongst the other numbers in my phone, tic again and call him. He answers on the first ring, like he's been waiting for me.

"Hey Wes, my man!" My dad's voice chimes in my ear.

My shoulder jerks, then my head, sharp inhale and then I touch my nose, ya know standard order of operation.

"Hey dad."

"How you been kiddo?" He asks.

I pace the floor, straightening things as I go as if they aren't already right where they're supposed to be.

"I'm good. Ya know, just busy with sch..." I'm cut off by a tic. "And stuff."

It shouldn't make me nervous. It shouldn't make me more anxious, I know that. He's my dad. And it's not like I get in trouble for tic-ing. It's just that I can tell he hates it. That he's sitting there judging me for each and every one like if I wanted to bad enough I could stop them.