by Andrew Grey
“Part of what I do is physical therapy, but I also do occupational therapy, or at least I used to at the drive-through clinic.”
“What’s the difference?” Bri asked. He’d heard the words, but had never given them much thought.
“Physical therapy is what you and I are doing. The purpose is to help you heal and get back into peak physical condition. Occupational therapy is what they did when they taught you how to use crutches or when they showed you how to put your shoes and socks on without reinjuring yourself. It’s to show you how to navigate life again after the injury. In your dad’s case, the flower boxes would help him get back something he’s lost, in a different way. But it could also help with his motion and delay further loss. Use it or lose it.”
“Is that real?” Bri put the car in Park and turned to Obie, grinning as his mind whirred on what he could do for his dad. Dammit, he knew he was beaming, but couldn’t help it.
“Yes. If we didn’t work your leg every week like we are, you might improve, but your muscles could heal in such a way that you might not get all the motion back. Or it could heal badly and get worse over time. It’s hard to push ourselves each and every day unless we have some goal or something we love that makes us want to do it.” Obie shrugged. “I’m glad you like the idea. It was just a thought off the top of my head.” Bri didn’t move, and Obie continued looking at him. Bri felt heat building, and not from the sun shining in the windows.
Damn it all, Bri wanted to know what those pink, slightly pursed lips tasted like and what it would feel like to kiss Obie, to pull that compact, wiry body to him. Was Obie the electric spark he thought he was? He had to know. So he leaned across the console to get closer, using the excuse of looking into the glove compartment as a chance to inhale Obie’s enticingly rich scent, which only made matters more difficult and… problematic.
“Are you coming in or do you plan to sit in your car all day?” His mother stood outside, hands on her hips. Instantly, things cooled down for him, even if a little sweat broke out on the back of his neck. Bri opened the door and carefully got out, getting his crutches from the back seat. Obie came around to meet him once he got his crutches under his arms.
“Mom, this is Obie,” Bri said.
“The friend your father was taking about,” she said, extending her hand. Obie shifted the container and shook the offered hand.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” It was clear that Obie wasn’t sure what to do with the container.
Bri helped him out. “Obie made Dad a chocolate dessert.” He knew his mother was too well-mannered to actually say anything about it in front of him. She took the container and motioned toward the house.
“Porter will love it, I’m sure.” She smiled and led them inside. Obie stayed with him and let Bri enter first. His mother headed toward the kitchen, and Bri led Obie into the living room, where his father sat in his chair near the front window.
“You must be Obie. Bri was telling me about you last night.” He waved toward a nearby chair, and Obie sat down. “So tell me why you gave away your basketball.”
Obie glanced at him, and Bri shrugged. “Dad, you could beat around the bush a little.”
“Poppycock. Take them by surprise.” He leaned closer to Obie. “So why did you do it?”
“Dad…,” Bri groaned.
“It’s okay. I love basketball, always have. But I was too short, so they didn’t want me on the team until they learned I could shoot. Anyway, I made the shot, and when I went to take my seat, I saw a little girl a few rows up. She had this look on her face—you know the one, like she wanted something more than anything else in the world. So I gave her the ball. I think it will mean more to her than it ever would to me.”
Porter shook his head. “I have seen very few true acts of kindness in my life. We often do things for selfish reasons—because we want something in return, even if it’s recognition.”
“It never occurred to me,” Obie said with a shrug. “There was no thought behind it. It was spontaneous.” Obie blushed slightly. “Can we talk about something else?”
Bri was about to say the same thing, but he knew his dad, and he wasn’t likely to let this go yet. He could almost see the questions bubbling up in his eyes. “Yes, Dad.”
His dad huffed. “Very well.” He slowly turned to Obie. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” That was unusual. By and large, his father’s entire career had been built around making people uncomfortable as he tried to get them to examine the source of their feelings, which tended to be traumatic. “I encounter someone truly kind very seldom and I was curious.”
Obie cocked his head slowly, and his lips curled upward just a little. “Okay. As long as you’re willing to answer my questions, I’ll answer yours.”
“Agreed.” Bri’s dad smiled and a light grew in his eyes. “Did you consider that she might not want the ball? To be closed-minded and stereotypical, it was a little girl that you gave the ball to, not a little boy, right?”
Obie grinned. “She was there with her dad, so it never occurred to me. I gave it to her because I thought it would make her happy.” He leaned forward. “So, my turn. Why did you name your son Brighton Early? Did you not consider the implications of that kind of name on him? Did you, as an educator, not consider how other people would treat him because of it?”
Bri nearly gasped. Not that he was shocked by the question, but because he had never thought to ask his dad about it. He had gone by a nickname since he was six years old. He didn’t like his name and had spent much of his life distancing himself from it. “Obie….”
Porter snickered, a sound he had very rarely heard his dad ever make. “That is one of the best questions anyone has ever asked me. I named my son Brighton because I liked the name. Pamela and I did think about it briefly, but we figured it would either make him stronger or help him figure out who he was and what he wanted.” His dad’s smile faded. “I had no idea that he would spend the rest of his life stepping back from his own name.”
“You know that names matter,” Obie said. “They’re important. They label you and help others identify you. They give an impression of you before you even open your mouth.” He raised his eyebrows, challenging Porter, which happened very rarely. It was a little satisfying for Bri to see his father put off his game, even if just a little.
“I see. I take it this is something you feel strongly about.” Porter locked gazes with Obie. “Do you have an unusual name?” Bri had seen his father’s laser focus more times in his life than he could count. Obie swallowed, his throat working as he nodded.
“Dad…,” Bri groaned a warning,
“He asked his question, so I get to ask mine.” To his father, that would seem logical.
“Yes. My father has a weird sense of humor. Obediah Juan Kenoble,” Obie said, and Bri’s father gasped. “They’re family names.”
“Okay. Son, I owe you an apology,” he said as he turned to Bri. “We should have been more sensitive to the potential impacts of naming you Brighton Early. I thought I was giving you something that would make you stronger, not a millstone that you had to carry around with you for your entire life.” He held out his hand, and Bri took it.
“Dad, I’m Bri. That’s the name I take for my own, the same way I take and own the rest of the things in my life that are important to me. I know who I am.” His father rarely apologized directly. Not that he didn’t say he was sorry, but he usually did it with actions rather than saying it directly.
“Boys, we’re getting lunch on the table.” His mom came in and leaned down, kissing his dad gently. “You be nice to Obie. He brought you a chocolate dessert. And you know Renelda and I are not going make you dessert.”
“We’re good, dear. He and I were having a wonderful conversation.” Porter smiled. “I like him.”
Bri and Obie shared a glance, and Bri nodded. His dad never said things he didn’t mean. “Mom, I’ll help Dad get in for lunch,” Bri offered, and his mother thanked h
im and left the room. He stood, then guided his father away from the desk and out into the open so he could easily navigate out of the living room and into the dining area.
He turned to Obie. “Dad and mom don’t have many guests at mealtime,” Bri said.
“I suspect your dad is self-conscious when he eats.” Obie patted his arm. “Come on, let’s go in. The lunch smells amazing.” While Bri’s dad had movement in his arms and hands, it could be jerky, which meant that sometimes the food didn’t make it to his mouth. They entered the dining room, and Bri moved his dad to where he sat at the end of the table. Places had been set for Bri and Obie along one side, with his mother across from them. Renelda brought in the food and then took a place next to Bri’s mother.
“Thank you for having me,” Obie said a little nervously.
“I’m only glad I haven’t scared you away already. I spent too many years getting into other people’s heads to turn it off that easily. Pamela tells me over and over that I need to lay off and just let it go.”
“Turning off part of who you are is an exercise in futility,” Obie said, with both Bri’s father and mother nodding their heads. Bri couldn’t agree more.
BRI SPENT most of lunch as tense as a banjo string. It wasn’t because things weren’t going well. They were, in fact, going great, but he kept expecting the situation to go off the rails at any time. Especially after Bri’s father finished eating and started scanning around the table. Oh God, Dad was thinking of his next questions. But none came.
“Mr. Brighton, how is your knee?” Renelda asked as she began clearing the dishes and bringing coffee. She always called him that, no matter how many times he asked her to stop. It was her way of showing him respect.
“It’s doing better, thank you. Obie is helping me get back into playing form. We’ve already been seeing progress, which is making me very happy.”
She nodded and smiled.
“Have you thought about what you want to do with your life after basketball?” his dad interrupted. “You know your mother and I support you—we always have and we always will—but this injury should be a wake-up call that your career has a shelf life.” His dad seldom asked easy questions, and he must have been saving this one up for a while.
“I don’t know,” Bri answered and looked at both his parents. “Right now, I want to focus on getting back into playing form and then concentrate on playing my best.”
“It’s what Bri and I are working on.” Obie picked up for him. “If all my clients were as cautious and took their recovery as seriously as he does, my job would be a lot easier. He’s driven to recover. That goes a long way in getting him back to where he should be.” Obie squeezed his hand under the table.
“Isn’t that being shortsighted?” Bri’s father pressed.
Bri opened his mouth, but didn’t get a chance to answer before Obie jumped in to defend him. “Being an athlete takes a huge amount of dedication.” Obie leaned forward, tilting his head to Bri’s dad. “I think it’s important that we all keep our eye on the ball and where it belongs.” Obie turned to him. “Personally, I’d love to see Bri as a model. I think he’d be fantastic in one of those underwear ads.” He fanned himself slightly.
Bri’s mom giggled. “I’d like to see that too, as long as he wears clothes. The last thing I want to see is a forty-foot-tall poster of my baby boy wearing nothing but a pair of Calvin Klein tighty-whities. I don’t think any mother wants to see that.” She shivered and Bri nearly choked on his drink. Obie turned to him with heat in his eyes. Obviously, Obie had a very different opinion from his mom, and Bri found he liked that Obie found that intriguing.
“But what about a real career?” his father asked without heat, though obviously trying to get the topic back where he wanted it. “You’ll need to make a living when you can’t play any longer.”
Renelda finished clearing the table, and Bri figured she was smart to get out of the line of fire. He and his dad had had this discussion before, but his injury had only strengthened his dad’s argument. “Dad, right now, I want to continue playing. That’s where I need to put my energy.”
“You have a college degree. Maybe now is a good time to use your contacts to check out some other opportunities. What if your knee never heals enough that you can play again?” The firmness in his dad’s voice caught Bri a little off guard.
“What did you study?” Obie asked gently from next to him.
“I took business classes. I could go on for an MBA if I wanted, at some point. But I love what I do, and the thought of hours in classrooms again, followed by days in an office, makes my skin crawl.” He turned to his dad. “You always did your best for us, but I don’t want your life. The thought of living like that makes me stir-crazy.”
He firmed his tone to meet the one his dad had used. “What I want is an active life.” He turned to Obie, because if he continued staring at his dad—and seeing the way he glared at him—Bri was going to say something he didn’t mean. And the last thing he wanted was a full-on fight in front of Obie. “I’ve been thinking of working with kids.” He grinned. “I have this idea of starting a camp, maybe closer to the city. I could work with people who are as passionate about basketball as I am—teach them some of what I’ve learned and maybe help them discover that they have a talent they never knew about.”
His dad shook his head, but he was smiling, which was confusing as all fuck. “You look like you have something to say?” Bri said to his dad.
“Yes. I think that’s a great idea.” His dad actually seemed pleased. “Son, I don’t care what you do as long as it makes you happy. But if you want something like that to happen, you need to start thinking about it now.” He yawned, and his mother helped wipe his father’s face and clean up his clothes.
“Go into the living room. I’ll help Renelda here and will join you in a few minutes.” She effectively kicked them out of the dining room, and Bri couldn’t help noticing the amount of food scattered on the table around his dad’s plate. He sighed and said nothing, even though he knew it was a sign of the progression of his dad’s disease. But he noticed the way Obie looked at the table, also saying nothing.
“The meal was lovely, thank you,” Obie said, flashing both Bri’s mom and Renelda one of his winning smiles, which Bri instantly wished had been aimed his way.
“The powder room is just down the hall if you need to refresh yourself.” His mother was always big on her guests being refreshed. He used to laugh at the term until he realized how much better it sounded than the alternative.
“Thank you.” Obie went down the hall, and Bri followed him.
“Dad’s getting worse,” Bri said softly, hoping that if he said something, it might ease the twist in his gut. “He could eat much more easily a few months ago.” He leaned against the wall of the hallway, where family pictures filled almost every inch of space.
Obie nodded and blessedly didn’t offer some platitude to try to make him feel better.
“I’m not sure what to do.” Bri kept his voice low.
Obie shrugged. “Be there for him?” he offered. Bri nodded as the back of his throat scratched. He swallowed, hoping it would go away, but that wasn’t likely. His father’s condition was only going to get worse… until it killed him. He swallowed again and turned away. “Is that you?” Bri turned to the picture Obie was looking at.
“No. My brother. He loved horses and rode competitively when he was younger. Mom and Dad had joined the country club, where they had stables. He won a number of ribbons. That’s his first one, with Dancer. Mom and Dad got him for us to share, but Dancer bonded with him. They were inseparable, and Gregory used to go out to the barn every single day to care for him and ride him.”
Obie stared at the picture of Gregory standing next to Dancer, holding his ribbon, one hand caressing Dancer’s neck. “There’s a story there.”
Bri nodded. “I wish I could say it was a happy one. Someone broke into the stable one night, and Dancer got out. By the time we
found him, he’d hurt his leg so badly that there was no hope for him. We’d had him five years at that point, so Gregory was heartbroken.” Bri moved down the hall. “This is the two of them a few weeks before the incident.”
“They look great together.” Obie stared at the picture.
“Yeah, they did. Dad offered to get Gregory another horse, but he declined. As far as I know, he has never ridden again. He had no interest in it after we lost Dancer.”
“What does he do now?” Obie smiled as he slid his gaze down the rest of the walls of pictures. “Is that him?” He pointed to a picture of Bri’s brother at his college graduation, complete with cap, gown, and honors insignia.
“Gregory went into special education. He always had this huge heart.” Bri sighed. “Gregory is the best of all of us. He originally wanted to be an architect and used to dream of designing buildings that would last forever. But that changed his sophomore year.” He motioned to the next picture. “That’s Gregory and Phillip. He joined Big Brothers, and when he met Phillip….” Bri swallowed hard. “Phillip had special needs, and no one wanted to take him. Gregory didn’t bat an eyelash. He spent a lot of time with him for the next three years, until Phillip’s heart just gave out.” Dammit, he had to turn away and tried to wipe his eyes so Obie wouldn’t see.
A hand, warm and gentle, rested on his shoulder and stayed there. Thankfully, Obie knew when to remain quiet. If he’d said one word, Bri would have lost it.
“Gregory stayed in school another year, changed his major, and went into education. Dad was thrilled that his oldest son was following in his footsteps, so to speak. Gregory taught in the classroom for a number of years and developed programs to help kids like Phillip and others. His work has been published, and two years ago, he was promoted to principal. The kids love him.” He took a deep breath, noticing that Obie’s hand didn’t leave his shoulder.
