Free Empty Nests by Ada Maria Soto

but it’s getting kind of late, and I noticed your rear wheel was looking kinda wobbly. I just want to make sure you’re not stuck by the side of the road somewhere. And since this is going right to voice mail, I’ll take a guess that if you are stuck somewhere, it’s someplace you don’t have coverage so… um… I hope you make it home safe and, yeah. I’ll talk to you later.”
    James quickly called back and gave half a chuckle when he got voice mail as well. “Hi. It’s me, James. I’m home in one piece. Hit traffic. My phone’s going through one of its antisocial phases where it just doesn’t like to ring and hangs up on calls for me, so don’t take it personally. I had a nice time too and… yeah, I guess I’ll talk to you later.”
    James closed his eyes and listened to the quiet of the apartment. He usually used nights when Dylan was out to catch up on some reading, or cleaning, or watching some TV. The desire or even the idea of going out had vanished years earlier. Tonight, though, he knew where he’d rather be, and it was not the tiny apartment he’d called home since Dylan was five.
    He’d only had part-time work that first year, and the rent chewed up most of every paycheck. Money had been so tight, he’d gotten Dylan on the free lunch program at his school, then sucked up his pride and applied for food stamps. Even with that, James had needed to stretch every cent as far as he could. He’d caught a glimpse of the lunch bill that afternoon, and it was easily a month of grocery money in those days. Six weeks if he could find some good deals.
    He stepped into the bathroom and turned on the light, staring at his reflection in the mirror. He looked his age, and it was always a surprise. The moment Dylan was born, he’d looked up and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror that was in the birthing room for some reason. He’d had a zit high on his nose and was still six months away from his last major growth spurt, so still had the last drops of baby fat on his cheeks. His mental image of himself had frozen in that moment. The lines starting to etch their way between his eyebrows and around the corners of his eyes looked like they belonged to someone else.
    He didn’t need anyone from the Psych Department to tell him that a large part of himself had frozen in that moment, that there were important developmental steps he’d missed and experiences he’d never had.
    He put his fingers to his jaw, right where Gabe had pressed his lips. His toes had curled, and everything had felt so alive in that moment. He wondered if he should try calling Gabe again. Dylan would probably tell him not to, that it would make him sound desperate, even if he was. A not-date and a date were sadly the closest thing to a relationship with a man he’d ever had. Gabe was nice, damn good-looking, and for some weird reason seemed to actually enjoy James’s company.
    He put his hands to either side of the bathroom mirror and leaned close. “James Maron, do not fuck this up.”
     
     
    T HE RICKETY wood stand shook under James and the other parents as they leapt to their feet. The ball Dylan had just hit dropped to earth in far right field. Dylan sprinted around to third, sending two of his teammates home ahead of him, wrapping up the game neatly.
    James checked the stands for scouts. It had become a compulsive habit since Dylan started showing real talent. Between academics and baseball, Dylan had gotten an early offer from Stanford, but that was no reason not to keep an eye out for pro scouts. He knew, logically, Dylan wasn’t playing at that level and possibly never would, but a father could dream.
    As the rest of the spectators departed, James waited by the locker rooms with some of the other parents. He knew them all well, but he’d always had a slightly odd relationship with them, being only a handful of years older than some of their eldest children. He wasn’t sure how much breath he’d wasted over the years,