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BODHI

As if I didn’t have all the time in the world at therapy to talk through my feelings, the distance from my house to Dr. Banks’ office gives me an additional moment of reflection.

I imagine she must have planned this location intentionally, knowing her clients would have a long drive back to stew over their discussion and reach some angelic resolution.

A come to Jesus moment.

Not likely.

Dr. Banks’ office is located in a rural area of Atlanta on the city’s outskirts. It should take no more than twenty minutes to get there, but with Atlanta traffic on a Friday night, I can count on adding another thirty minutes to my drive back home.

Atlanta is a city with a magnitude of possibilities. There are endless options for places to live, whether you prefer countryside living, city nightlife, or coastal leisure.

I prefer the city. Not because of the nightlife—I hate that shit. But I thrive on keeping busy. It helps distract my thoughts and allows me to blend in. I’m not someone who enjoys big crowds—I hate attention and when people notice me.

I do my best to blend in.

My job as a Major League baseball player does me no favors with that. You’d think I would be accustomed to swarms of people by now, yet they only make me more anxious and on edge. I can talk with fans, sign swag, or anything in close quarters. But if large groups bombard me at once, I revert to an inward panic.

Like most people with trauma, I’ve got triggers.

Overstimulation is mine.

Despite my difficulties in those situations, I fucking love my job.

I live, breathe, and sleep baseball.

It sounds cliché, but it’s in my blood.

It makes me feel alive.

It might be the only thing that does at this point.

The drive home goes by much faster than usual, likely from my thoughts helping pass the time.

An empty driveway greets me as I pull up to the house.

Being home alone is a true rarity when living with three other dudes. I’ll take it, though. I’ve had a long day of press, weight training, and practice before therapy; a hot shower and an early night are what I need.

I may feel my best in the city, but the home my teammates and I share is nothing like a home I would want for myself— it’s modern and luxurious.

We aren’t exactly hurting for money, so sharing a place of this size makes sense for us. We’re all single, and there’s no guarantee we’ll be in Atlanta forever.

The concrete mid-century home is clean, sleek, and made up of squared-off edges. The black trim and framing give it more of a masculine look, which is one of the factors that sold it for Gus, my friend, and the Strikers third baseman, when we decided to settle down here.

If I had my way—which I could, but I won’t—I would live in a penthouse in the middle of the city. I want the views, the city lights cascading over the night sky, and the security that comes with it.

I like my privacy, and a shared house is far from private.

Since my best friend Callaway got married and moved out two months ago, we now have an empty space in this monster of a house. I offered it up to his younger sister, Navy, after she split with her douche of an ex-boyfriend, but it doesn’t look like she will be taking me up on that offer anytime soon.

After grabbing my things from the backseat, I head to the front door, ready to turn in for the night. Entering the house, I’m met with the smell of Kingston’s spicy chili filling the air and making my stomach growl in hunger. I’m beyond starving, realizing all I’ve eaten this morning is a bagel and a protein bar after practice.

Not enough for a guy my size.

You’d think living with a bunch of dudes would result in endless amounts of junk food and takeout every night, but not with Kingston Baylor in the house. The guy might as well be a Michelin Star chef with the skills he possesses in the kitchen.

You’d never know he’s one of the Major League’s best shortstops.

He spoils us with his culinary skills, and you’ll never hear us complain about it.

Speaking of King’s cooking, it looks like the gods are on my side today. I open the fridge to a bowl covered in aluminum foil, just for me.

Fuck, I’m hungry.

He even left me a loaf of garlic bread.

I quickly heat the leftovers and walk to the round table off the side of the kitchen.

There’s nothing but silence.

Although I prefer being alone, the loneliness feels heavy. I can’t let my mind get past the thought of letting anyone else in. I have no room for change and no room to spare. I prefer isolation, knowing I can control what comes next.

In my head, everything has a place—including people. The option is there. However, I won’t entertain it—not because of my busy schedule, but because I prefer it that way.

Solitude.

I’m almost finished with my food when my phone rings, catching my attention.

Oh, look…Dad.

This conversation is unavoidable.

Ever since my mom left, he’s hovered like a helicopter parent.

He means well, except I’m thirty years old and don’t need a babysitter. I still think he tries to live through me, especially knowing he lost his chance at playing in the big leagues.

I hate that for him, but we’re not the same.

I’d never let him interfere to the point that he took the fun out of the game. I love it enough for myself and everyone else, but sometimes it’s like the game is all he cares about.

It’s more about my stats and less about me. I know he would never intentionally make things this way between us, but unfortunately, it is what it is.

I’ve learned to accept it.

That makes these random late-night phone calls dreadful. I’m happy to talk to him, but I know where the conversation will lead.

I click to answer.

“Hey, Dad. What’s up?”

“Hey, son. It’s good to hear your voice. How’s everything going?”

Dad lives in Savannah, which is about four hours from Atlanta. We don’t see each other often, so we check in frequently.

“Things are good. Same old, same old. I just got home and ate some dinner. Planned on crashing for the night soon. Today was long.”

“I bet. That’s life on the road, I’d imagine. When’s your next home game? I’d love to come see you play, kid.”

Here comes another wave of loneliness. No matter how much he loves the game, sometimes more than I do, it seems, he’s my dad and one of the best guys I know. He’s slowly picking up the pieces after Mom left, and I know he’s doing his best.

“Monday night. You should come. I’d love to have you there, Dad.”

“I wish I could, son. I’m heading out of town Sunday night. Let me know when the next one is.”

“No worries. Season is almost over anyway. The series isn’t lookin’ good for us this year.”

“There’s always next year. You catchin’ Monday night?”

There it is. “I am. I’m starting.”

“I’ll try to stream it on my drive.”

Why not watch even if I wasn’t starting? Even though I always start, but still—watch it for me.

Maybe I’m expecting too much from him. But at the same time, my mom is gone doing God knows what, and he and my sister, Penelope, are all I’ve got.

I know I need to accept it for what it is and be thankful he wants to be there.

“Awesome. Let me know if you want to grab di?—”

“Son, I gotta run. Jerry is on the other line. Something about a truckload not showing up. I’ll call you later.”

He hangs up, cutting my invitation off completely.

So much for dinner and spending time together.

My dad is a truck driver for a local spirits distributor. He’s the leading load manager, overseeing nearly fifty truckloads. He’s on the road a lot, managing on the go, which is another roadblock in our strained relationship. I’m thankful he can watch me play on Monday night from afar, though. It seems no matter how old I get, I still love having him there—or at least knowing he’s watching me.

A wave of exhaustion hits me. I’m tired.

I feel my eyes rolling to the back of my head and my body fighting to give out.

I’ve been going nonstop, and it’s finally catching up with me. After washing my dishes, drying them, and putting them away, I head to my room upstairs and make my way toward the bathroom to shower. For sharing a space, we’re all fortunate enough to have our own bathrooms. It’s needed. Especially with the amount of fuck buddies Gus and Kingston bring around. Mack is pretty private, so I’m unsure what that looks like for him. Mine is nonexistent, leaving them nothing to worry about on my end.

I secure a towel from the bathroom closet and strip myself down. I can feel my body release the tension it’s been forcefully holding in. I feel like a tightly loaded cannon unable to fire. It’s paralyzing. It would be one thing if I knew how to fix it, but I don’t. My eyes find my tired frame in the reflection of the mirror.

Have I always looked so worn down? My eyes look jet black, and I have heavy bags underneath, as if sleep were a foreign concept.

It is. Lately, I have found myself passing out on the couch or waking up multiple times throughout the night when I’m in bed.

Solid and healthy sleep is, in fact, a foreign concept.

I’m not only feeling exhausted, but my body looks tired—if that’s even a thing.

At this point, all the hard work I’ve put into my physique means nothing if I don’t feel good. I’m close to six-six, all toned muscle and broad shoulders. Despite my tainted history, tattoos aren’t my thing. It’s such a contrast compared to my buddy Callaway, who is covered head to toe.

My palms touch the bathroom countertop as I lean forward to examine myself. I hope all the time I’ve invested in therapy helps. I need it to. I can’t keep living this one-dimensional life with no light in sight. It’s miserable and slowly tearing me apart, shred by shred.

I need the haunting of her screams to go away.

With a deep breath, I pull back and run a hand through my thick, dirty blond hair.

I need to shower and sleep. Dr. Banks did a number on me today, and I’m beating myself up over it. I’m struggling with something so far in the past; I should have moved on from this feeling a long time ago.

The fact that I’m thinking about it is a good thing, though.

Maybe. I don’t know.

Rest will cure my overthinking, I’m sure of it. It will also help me push down the thoughts I refuse to let sneak in. Thoughts that are now so far off-limits but felt like the only destination at the time. A sinfully tragic discovery of something I now find myself craving.

Fiji.

My memories of that night are so vividly illustrated, they transport me back in seconds.

Thick red curls and a slinky silver bikini.

Jesus. The image scars my flesh with possession and need.

One mistake that continues to consume me. It’s a forbidden fantasy I can never explore, but that doesn’t mean I can’t desire it from afar. I should be glad for its occasional distraction from my demons, but it’s beginning to feel like another hurdle I’m struggling to jump over.

Maybe because it stirred up a fire inside of me.

A fire that was over the second it started. It’s for the best.

Solitude is my penalty and my eternal consequence.

It’s time I accepted that.