Holt

25 Compromise

I sought out solitude in my parent's townhouse after the meeting with the lawyers. Slipping into a bedroom that my mom says is mine, not that I've ever stayed in it.  But it's warm and familiar, decorated similar to my old room in the old house. Books line the shelves in the bedside tables, my old high school jersey that Mo got me after my adoption framed and displayed proudly. Even my busted down basketball shoes are still there, the toes sticking out from beneath the bed. I told my mom she could get rid of them the summer after I graduated high school. Drew and I had just gotten back from another road trip he had insisted we go on, to celebrate of course. But I was feeling good, a little confident, safe.

Those old shoes reminded me of the person I was, the one I had to be and I didn't want to remember that part of my life.

I even went so far as to throw them out for her but she plucked them from the garbage and asked if she could keep them. What could I say, no? That woman gave me a second chance, she's given me everything.

Taking a seat on the bed, the fabric wrinkles beneath my legs and I let out a breath that's not as easy as it should be. My statement is done, I did it. Now I just have to wait for the Board to make their verdict. I thought I'd be met with some relief but if I'm being honest it still feels like I'm running.

Maybe that won't go away until Austin's dead. Maybe I won't ever feel completely safe from him as long as he's still alive.

"Holt?"

I jump at the sound of my name, startling so hard instincts kick in and I throw my body farther away from the noise. It's amazing how quick my thoughts are at plucking me from the present and throwing me back into the concrete walls of the basement, the dampness sinking into my bones even though I'm sitting on a soft bed, in a meticulously clean house that's full of love and warmth.

My lungs seize as I force myself to really look at what's around me, clinging to things I know to be real. Like the white bedspread beneath my fingers and the warm walls, the colorful nightstands and their books, my jersey. I track everything around the room until I reach the doorway, my dad standing there watching me.

"Sorry." I hate that my voice trembles.

"You okay?" He asks, lingering there.

I can see him trying to gauge how far into panicking I am. If him coming closer will send me deeper or not.

Nodding my head, I uncurl my fingers from where they're fisted in the fabric below and ease my body back onto the bed.

"You sure?" He always double checks.

And that's when my head shakes no. I'm not okay. My head hangs, hair flopping across my face as I stare at my lap.

"Mind if I sit?" He gestures at the space beside me and I once again nod my head.

The bed dips beside me and out of habit, a long deep rooted habit, I make a mental note of the distance between us.

"Talk to me son, what's going on?"

My dad is an amazing man. I still don't understand his ability to be so patient. It took me so long to get to the point where I could sit like this and not be rigid with fear, where I could come to him with my problems and my fears and my uncertainty. He never once lost his calm with me, for all the years that I would shake in his presence or choose mom over him. He's done everything he's ever promised, he's never hurt me, he's never left, he's always kept me safe.

"I messed up." It's a quiet admission as my head hangs in defeat. "I went to practice and then I came home and I swear dad my plan was to just hang out until the lawyers but as soon as I got home everything hit me so I went to the gym down the street." It tumbles out of me, my voice full of anguish because I know I'm not in a good place but I'm trying.

"Okay." He says gently, coaxing me on.

"I ran ten miles." Ten miles too many. "And then when I was walking home there was a pick up game at a court and I joined." I blew way through my allotted exercise for the day. "I got knocked down and when I went to stand everything blacked out. I meant to eat, I swear but.."

"Holt." The sound of my name silences me. "It's okay."

I nod but it doesn't change the fact my anxiety just doesn't go away. "I just can't get everything under control."

"Well, let's think about our options. Why don't we talk to your coaches, it's just summer training. I'm sure you can take a few weeks off." My eyes snap to his ready to list reasons why I can't. I can't take time off, I'll fall behind, I won't play as well but as I go to list my concerns my dad places his hand on my knee gently. "You'll play just fine if not better once we get you back to a better weight."

Somewhere in me I know he's right.

"And maybe we should cancel the other gym membership." He adds.

"I can't." I say but it's actually I don't want to. There's a level of security for me knowing it's an option.

He holds my gaze, calm, patient and I can see him waiting for me to give in. I know he's right. I know I have to stop.

"Compromise?" I ask, my gears spinning to try and find a solution. "I keep the gym but I make a schedule?"

We both know that I have a hard time breaking rules and routines. Taking a deep breath, I shift my gaze down to his hand that's still on my knee.

"I think we can do that as long as progress happens." His voice is soft, a smooth tone that I've learned to seek comfort in.

I'm relieved. Instantly I feel less chaotic, less like I'm spiraling downward and he squeezes my knee gently before the warmth of his hand leaves my leg.

"Me too." I breathe the words wishing he could solve all my problems so easily.

"How's Raf? Has he shown up yet?"

The sun shines through the open curtains, the windows facing the street casting the room in optimism even though my dad's question leaves me with despair.

I shake my head no.

I'm terrified for Raf. That something happened with his dad. That he's run off. That he's mixed up in the wrong crowd. I don't want that for him and I don't think he wants it either.

"He'll show up." He tells me. "He knows he can trust you."

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The hubs and I are learning Dutch so when we go visit Rensk3N we won't sound like complete tourists. So far duolingo has taught us how to say you are an apple. It's our new favorite insult to each other haha.