Love By Number

by DJ Jamison

  “Fuck you, Jesse. Just because you don’t know what it’s like to care about something.”

  Jesse squinted. “What’s that mean?”

  “You don’t even care about your art, do you? I heard you on that phone call with your mom. You treat your art like some boring hobby that doesn’t really matter to you. At least I’m passionate about something. I don’t just shrug it off or hide from it because I’m afraid.”

  “And look at you,” Jesse snapped. “You’re fucking ridiculous. You’re losing your shit over a game. You’ve got a great ass, but you need to pull out that stick and chill the fuck out.”

  Aidan sucked in a breath, but words failed him. He couldn’t organize his thoughts enough to pay Jesse with hurtful words in kind.

  He stood up, bouncing off the bed quickly enough Jesse took a step back. Good. Maybe he knew he was pushing it too far. Aidan’s hands clenched into fists, but he wouldn’t hit Jesse. He’d learned the hard way years ago that lashing out physically meant trouble. But he couldn’t stay in Jesse’s space and control himself either.

  He strode to the closet and grabbed his suitcase. He tossed it on the bed.

  “We’re not leaving until morning,” Jesse said behind him.

  Aidan ignored him, pulling pants off the hangers and folding them. He tucked them into the suitcase, and pulled his other things from the two drawers under the television. As he continued packing, Jesse kept talking, but Aidan couldn’t really process it. He heard the noise, but that’s all it was: noise.

  He zipped the suitcase, gathered his toiletries and headed for the door. Jesse blocked his path.

  “You’re overreacting, Aidan. We both said things we shouldn’t have.”

  “I’m leaving.”

  “I’m not up to driving tonight.” Jesse held out a hand that was shaking. “I’m too worked up. I can take you in the morning, Aidan. Just … sleep it off, huh? We’ll both sleep it off.”

  Aidan shook his head hard enough his hair fluttered around him. “No, I’m leaving. I’ll take the bus.”

  “But you hate—”

  Jesse’s words were cut short when Aidan yanked the door open, hitting his back and forcing him to shuffle forward in stunned silence.

  “I’m going,” Aidan repeated.

  “Please, Aidan,” Jesse said. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry. This is crazy.”

  Aidan stepped out into the hallway, striding for the elevator. He couldn’t think straight. He could hardly breathe. He needed to go home. He needed his bed, and his things, and a warm glass of milk with his mother.

  This is crazy, Jesse said, but he might as well have said, you’re crazy. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had called Aidan that. It wouldn’t be the last.

  Chapter Eleven

  Aidan took the train home. He’d read some reviews and determined it might be more pleasant than a bus ride, and for the most part, it was. The gentle swaying motion of the locomotive traveling over the tracks was relaxing. It would probably be fun to watch the scenery go by, but it was much too dark.

  The trip was miserable anyway, though, because Aidan kept seeing Jesse’s face. He puzzled over Jesse’s expression as he’d left the room. He’d been so angry, his own emotions overwhelming him too much to possibly understand how Jesse felt. But something about his face had been wrong. He might have been angry, but that didn’t seem quite right, even though Jesse had spoken in anger before he left. Had he been hurt? He seemed almost pleading as Aidan walked away.

  You’re always a dick when you’re mad.

  Aidan worried over the thought all the way home. For a distraction, he pulled out his phone and called his mother, even though he’d just proved her right. He was twenty-seven and he still couldn’t manage to travel with a friend without a meltdown.

  “Hey, honey,” his mom answered with a sympathetic voice. “I saw the game.”

  He groaned. “It shouldn’t have gone like that. I tracked all the stats. When Marcus plays in the clutch, he delivers. I don’t understand it!”

  A passenger a couple of rows up glanced back at him, and Aidan clamped down on his lips so he wouldn’t be tempted to yell his frustration.

  “Shh, I know it’s upsetting,” Mom said. “But we’ve talked about this, Aidan. Even with all the right numbers, even when you run those numbers through a simulation program, it can’t ever be a guarantee. Baseball players are still people.”

  “I know, but the odds were very high.”

  “I get it, hon. I do. And odds are generally high that you can predict player performance based on their stats and who they’re playing and whether it’s a home game or an away game, and on and on. I’ve heard you talk about it. But you can’t predict a hangover or a bad night’s sleep, or heck, even nerves.”

  Her words annoyed him, but he couldn’t lash out at everyone because he was upset. He took a deep breath and released it.

  “He’s a professional baseball player, Mom. I doubt it was nerves.”

  “I’m just saying, there are all kinds of possibilities because he’s human. No matter how much you track his stats, Marcus won’t be a number; he’ll be a person with a life and circumstances that factor into his playing.”

  They’d had this conversation before. Aidan tended to get upset when the numbers didn’t deliver. He knew it wasn’t a perfect science, couldn’t be, but he got so excited watching his math play out the day before that he’d kind of forgotten the flip side of the coin: the major bummer when his numbers betrayed him. Or maybe the players betrayed their potential. Whatever. He’d been down this road.

  “You remember middle school, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” he mumbled.

  “Tell me what you learned in middle school. And don’t be a wiseass.”

  The crack about boys and girls growing hair in their special places didn’t make it past his lips. His mother knew him too well.

  “I learned that I couldn’t create a perfect formula for predicting games. I tried for a solid two years to build on existing math to better predict outcomes, but I was stupid.”

  “Not stupid—”

  “Teams don’t play each other enough times in a season to build an accurate prediction of who will win each game. I should have known that.”

  He glanced at the window, but it only threw back his reflection: messy hair from running his hands through it too many times, which he did when he was agitated; a wrinkle in the middle of his forehead; and lips that looked too much like a sulky pout for comfort. He didn’t want to behave like a child anymore, but he knew that’s exactly what he had done by running out on Jesse.

  “You were a kid. Give yourself a break.”

  “I’m not a kid anymore.”

  “No,” his mother said, the sympathetic tone vanishing in favor of a sterner one she used to get a point across. “You’re not, so don’t repeat the same mistakes. It’s okay to enjoy playing around with the numbers, but Aidan, you tend to get obsessed and you forget that baseball players are people first, and a row of stats second.”

  “You’re right.”

  He nudged his foot against his suitcase, reassuring himself it was safe and sound on the floor well in front of his seat. The bag was missing one crucial belonging that had traveled to St. Louis with him. He’d left his notebook full of scorecards and other notes back in the hotel room. He felt a pang at its loss. It represented years of work. But maybe it was for the best if he started fresh, with different expectations.

  ***

  The drive home was long, and Jesse didn’t even stop at any of the roadside attractions he’d planned to spring on Aidan. He’d thought without the time constraint of a game waiting for them, Aidan might have argued less and enjoyed more. Not that there hadn’t been a certain amount of enjoyment in the playful banter. Aidan challenged him, and he liked that. Too many people agreed with you because they wanted you to like them or they wanted to keep the peace.

  Aidan rocked the boat. Emphatically and energetically threw up wal
ls to Jesse’s assumptions. It was refreshing.

  And it hardly mattered now. Jesse had screwed up. After drawing out Aidan and listening to him talk about his stat tracking and game simulations to predict odds, he’d dismissed it as a hobby. Obviously, it was more than that to Aidan, and Jesse’s words hurt him.

  Jesse replayed their words to each other all the way home. Kicked himself for being insensitive. He’d only wanted Aidan to move beyond his bad mood, so they could have fun. Maybe have dinner and drinks. And another tumble into bed? Admit it, Jesse, you wanted to get your rocks off. You wanted to fuck him, and his feelings were in the way.

  Jesse pushed down the growing sense of shame. He wasn’t that selfish, was he? He’d wanted Aidan to cheer up for his sake, not Jesse’s own selfish desires, didn’t he? Jesse wished he could be sure.

  Aidan’s other accusations nagged at him as well. The suggestion he was too afraid to use his talents fully, that he treated his art like a throwaway activity instead of a passion. There was a kernel of truth there, as much as Jesse wanted to deny it. His mother, and Gramps to a lesser extent, had tried to encourage him to pursue his art, but they hadn’t gotten the message across as effectively as Aidan had in one angry exchange.

  Jesse went directly to Gramps’ place. He’d rather go home and mope until his shift at the bar, but he knew Gramps would be eagerly waiting to hear the game recap. He passed his apartment building and drove a few more blocks to the old bungalow he helped his grandfather keep up so he could continue to live independently. He didn’t do nearly as good of a job as Aidan did with his mother’s landscaping. He could use his green thumb with the scraggly rose bushes that had seen better days. But the house was safe and habitable and home.

  Jesse opened the door and walked in. He never knocked. He’d lived here as a teen and had been returning whenever it suited him ever since.

  Gramps sat in his favorite leather armchair, feet propped up on a matching ottoman. He’d had the chair forever, but it was in great condition. It was an antique, built of sturdier stuff than most of today’s furniture.

  “There you are,” Gramps said, putting down the crossword puzzle he’d been working on. He started to lever himself out of the armchair, and Jesse waved him down.

  “Just got back,” Jesse said, dropping into the sofa. Unlike the chair, it had seen better days and a throw blanket was tossed over the back to disguise much of the threadbare material. “Figured you’d be waiting to hear about the games.”

  “Oh sure, sure,” Gramps said, rubbing his hands together. “I watched it on television, but it’s not the same.”

  Jesse had made sure to note some of the atmosphere, and talked to Gramps about the sheer volume of the crowd. Each team’s fans trying to outdo the others with the volume of their cheers. It had gotten so rambunctious that even Aidan had been hard pressed to ignore it. Jesse still felt a little thrill of victory when he thought about persuading Aidan to stand and whip the commemorative World Series towel around with everyone else. Even better when he got a double high-five and hug from him when the Royals won their first game. Aidan had smiled so big …

  “Something bothering you?” Gramps asked.

  Jesse shook off his melancholy mood. Thinking of Aidan was pointless. The way he’d run away made it clear he wanted nothing to do with Jesse.

  “Nah, just tired,” Jesse said. “The rivalry was more fun than angry, which was awesome. With it being the Royals and the Cards, I wasn’t sure how vicious it would get, you know? People were vocal and they cheered and booed, but they never crossed the line to disrespectful.”

  “Shame about that second game. Marco really didn’t step up.”

  Jesse nodded. “Aidan was crushed.”

  “I can see why. He seemed like an avid fan.”

  Jesse hesitated, not sure he wanted to divulge his argument to his grandfather. Gramps knew he was gay. Jesse had never been able to hide it. He’d dated openly since high school, to hell with the consequences, and there’d been a bit of trouble back then, but not much since. He tended to surround himself with supportive people. His life was a tad insular when he thought about it. He worked at a gay bar. He painted sporadically, and when he wanted to sell a painting, he did it online or through an artist friend who was also gay. He spent time with Gramps, who would always accept him.

  No wonder Aidan had seemed like an alien lifeform. No wonder Jesse’s muse had been so stagnant. Jesse told Aidan to live a little, but maybe he needed to take his own advice.

  “He’s more than a fan,” Jesse said. “He records all the stats and runs simulations. I guess he creates odds on how players will perform in games. I didn’t quite follow everything he said, but he’s pretty passionate about it. Marco’s performance let him down, but it also contradicted what Aidan expected. I think that’s why he freaked.”

  “He freaked?”

  Jesse grimaced. “I might have told him to just get over it.” At his grandfather’s look of surprise, his defenses went up. “I just wanted him to have fun, you know? Not let one game ruin his night.”

  “But it wasn’t just one game, by the sounds of it. It was a lot of work and time and energy,” Gramps said.

  Jesse groaned. “I know. You’re right. I upset him, and he left.”

  “He left? In St. Louis, you mean?”

  Jesse nodded and recapped the worst of their argument, Aidan’s exit and Jesse’s trip home alone the following morning, though he might as well have gone that night for all the sleep he’d gotten. He kept hoping Aidan would come back, but he never did.

  “You should call him and make sure he’s okay,” Gramps admonished. “You shouldn’t have let him leave like that, Jess. I thought I taught you better.”

  Ouch. Jesse swiped a hand down his face. He hated disappointing his grandfather. He was the only person who’d always been there for Jesse.

  “I did call his phone a few times, and I sent a text, but he didn’t answer. I think he turned his phone off maybe.” He hesitated, glancing at Gramps. “And it gets worse. We, um, kind of ….”

  “You started something with him while you were up there?”

  That was Gramps’ tactful way of asking if Jesse slept with Aidan. He appreciated it, because as bold as Jesse could be in the right setting, he never wanted to discuss the details of his sex life with his grandfather. He nodded, biting down on a lip. “Yeah. I like him.”

  “Then you really need to call again. Why don’t you try the house phone? I have the number from when his mother called here.”

  “I don’t know,” Jesse hedged. “I don’t want to bother her.”

  Gramps huffed, and levered himself out of the armchair. Jesse followed him like a reluctant child ready to accept his punishment. Gramps grabbed the phone receiver from the wall – he still had a landline, as did Aidan’s mother — and thrust it at Jesse.

  “Call,” he barked.

  “I could have used my cell,” he mumbled, but accepted the receiver. After Gramps thrust a piece of paper with the number recorded under the penciled-in label “Aidan’s mother,” he dialed.

  The phone rang. Rang again. Rang a third time.

  “There’s no answer,” he whispered, moving to put the receiver back. Gramps shoved the phone back toward his ear.

  “Leave a message.”

  Jesse cleared his throat, feeling more nervous than if Aidan had answered on the first ring. Or maybe not. He had no idea what to say.

  The recording clicked on, and he ran out of time to think.

  “Hi, this is Jesse. I, um, wanted to make sure Aidan got home okay. I’m sorry for how that trip ended. Um, I’m … just sorry.”

  He hung up, and Gramps patted his shoulder. “That’s my boy. You did good.”

  Jesse huffed. “Hardly. Aidan hates me so much he was willing to find his own way home, and you saw him at the stadium that night I hit his car. He hated the idea of taking public transportation.”

  “Yep, you screwed the pooch,” Gramps agreed.
r />   “Thanks a lot.”

  “You know, this kind of reminds me of what happened with your grandmother before we married.”

  Jesse looked at Gramps curiously. He couldn’t see how this situation could have anything in common with a couple who got married in the forties, but he wasn’t about to shut down Gramps. He loved to tell stories of the old days, and Jesse loved to hear about his grandmother. She’d died when he was young. He remembered her: the warmth of her hugs that enveloped his whole body; the smell of fresh baking clinging to her clothes; the light tinkle to her laugh. But other details had faded away.

  “I screwed the pooch too, you see,” Gramps said, moving to the dining room table as he warmed to his story. He pulled out a chair and sat, and Jesse did the same. “Went out and drank too much with some pals of mine. I was supposed to be meeting her parents that night and I plumb chickened out.”

  “Uh-oh,” Jesse said.

  Gramps guffawed. “Damned right, uh-oh. She wasn’t having my excuses the next day. She said we were through, just like that. I’d shown her my priorities and they weren’t getting married and starting a family, so she wasn’t going to waste her time on me.”

  Jesse winced. He couldn’t imagine his grandparents not having that history. They’d married young and from all accounts had been pretty damn happy by today’s standards. They’d raised four children, most of whom scattered to the winds after their parents helped them through college. Only his mother had stayed, after having him at a young age and needing Gramps’ support, but she’d eventually left to chase her dreams, as well. Now Gramps’ only family nearby was Jesse, and he worked hard to make sure that Gramps had all the support and love he needed, even if he was just a noncommittal artist with no life plan.

  “What did you do?” Jesse asked.

  “Nothing at first,” Gramps said. “I was devastated. How could she throw away a good thing? We were great together. But then I realized I’d thrown out her wishes the night before, hadn’t given her more than one guilty second thought. I had to show her that I understood that she came before all that nonsense. If I wanted Marilyn, I couldn’t act like a schoolboy out drinking and raising hell.”