1. Calvin

CALVIN

I never played a single sport in high school. Never even went to a game because I was too busy studying, playing video games, or setting up model trains in my parents' basement. So, believe me when I say that the company's annual team-building picnic and baseball game is the last place I want to be right now.

My colleague, Jason, strides up to the mound as I squint against the sunlight, my mousy brown hair falling over my glasses and making it even more impossible to see. With my lanky stature and slender frame, I make for a poor athlete. The complete opposite of Jason, whose bright smile is so white I can see it all the way out here in the field like he's some damn model in a toothpaste commercial. Not that I don't have good teeth, but … yeah. Jason's in another league, sitting somewhere up there on Mt. Olympus, sipping from a goblet of wine, being fanned by satyrs. He was built for sports, and he knows it. Always trying to convince us to go golfing with him on the weekends or join him in his newest obsession: bouldering.

Yeah, no. I'm not about to go climb some fake rock in my free time just to satisfy my need for socialization. But Jason goes all the time and has the arms to prove it. Me? This body was made by sitting in front of a computer screen for ten hours a day, baby. I didn't choose the sedentary life, the sedentary life chose me when it decided to give my brother, Elvis, all the athletic genes in the family.

I crouch down in the grass as I wait from my spot in the outfield. It was my choice to be out here, of course, because where else would I be? Certainly not actively playing … what are those positions, again? The ones where they're standing on the bases? Don't know. Don't care. Just want to eat more hot dogs.

Jason swings the bat and the crack of the ball catches my attention just as a cloud moves out of the sun's path just in time for me to see the ball whizzing in my direction. I swallow the lump in my throat and hold up my mitt. I got this , I tell myself. If I catch this ball, then I can at least say I participated, and then I can go home not feeling like a total loser.

But the cloud moves again, and a sunbeam hits me right in the eyes, blinding me. The ball zips straight into my crotch with alarming intensity, and all I can think about is how I'm never going to live this down for the rest of my life.

Not to mention the infertility, though that one is less of a concern at the moment.

A guttural groan claws its way up my throat as my co-workers let out a collective gasp from the bleachers. I sink down into the damp grass, immediately staining my jeans green from the grass before curling up into the fetal position. Fuuuuuuuck me.

My eyes water. Never in my life have I known a pain this excruciating before. Not since that one time back in junior high when Marvin Harris shoved me into a locker with twenty-seven pairs of dirty gym socks, courtesy of the track team.

No one comes over to check on me, but Jason yells something about first aid. Please, no. This is so humiliating, and I don't need someone making it worse by fussing over me.

"Yo, Calvin! You good?" a gruff voice calls out. My boss, Ephron. We work at All-tronics, a company that makes sensors. The kind that tells a trackless ride at a theme park that it shouldn't bump into a wall or another object. Ephron's the only person who's ever actually stopped in the hallway to speak with me, and even then, it's not exactly what I'd call chit-chat. Not when everything he talks to me about is work related, such as, "Calvin, I need you to help prepare the ticket backlog for the refinement meeting." And, "Calvin, prepare the agenda for tomorrow's review with the customer."

If it weren't for tinkering on my side project, the Shrinkatron, I'd be way past burn out already. But because I'm allowed to work on something that satisfies my need to experiment, I've been mostly comfortable with my current company. Until today, that is.

"Fine. Just great," I squeak out as I clench my teeth to keep them from chattering. My vision goes hazy, and I clench my eyes tightly while the pain ebbs away. I'm not sure which hurts worse, my balls or my pride. Now, I'm no stranger to getting hit in the crotch, of course. High school was as much about evading bullies as it was about getting straight A's.

But this is the first time I can say I've been nailed in the dick with a baseball.

It's worse than someone's fist. A lot worse. The game continues around me as I peel myself up off the grass and dirt and let out a deep exhale. Jason, now on third base, lifts his hand to wave at me, and even grins like he didn't just doom my future swimmers.

"Lookin' good, buddy!" he shouts as he trots to home base. "Walk it off!"

I brush off my white t-shirt—now covered in dirt and grass smears—and watch Jason flash those pearly whites at Tanya, our receptionist, as she runs past. Her golden ponytail bounces behind her as she clutches a couple of sodas, and she only notices me when she's a few feet away.

"Oh, wow, Calvin! What happened?" she asks, but doesn't stop to chat. In fact, she doesn't even wait for me to answer before running up to Jason and handing him a soda. He slings an arm around her shoulder as they walk off together. Ephron raises an eyebrow, looks me up and down, then shrugs before meandering off to join the others at the tables.

I really hate these stupid picnics.

"You should keep ice on it," my mother croaks as she sets her carpet bag down next to the sofa. Scotch Bonnet, my white powder puff of a cat, doesn't bother to move from her spot on the cushion. I wish I could curl up and take a nap, too, but there's no point now. Not this late in the evening, and not now that my mother's here to visit. Once she's situated on the sofa, she plops a bag of frozen peas into my hand. I immediately set it down on the floor.

My mother could be considered an eccentric woman, with her dangly earrings that always look like she stole them from someone's crystal chandelier no matter the occasion. It could be a gala event, or it could be a Saturday at the flea market. She's wearing the earrings, the brightly colored crocheted dresses, and her lavender wigs. Not that I'd change anything about her, of course. But sometimes it would be nice if she'd just let me lick my wounds in private for a solid hour without feeling the need to mommy-hen me to death. It was difficult enough admitting to her that the reason I was walking funny was because of the baseball incident, and I only told her because she didn't believe my excuse about trying out a new exercise I saw online.

"You don't have a pelvic floor to worry about, sweetie pie. Now tell Mama the truth," she said as she patted me on the top of my head the same way she used to when I was a boy. There was no point in telling her to knock it off. For better or worse, she's been like this for the past thirty-three years, and she's not about to change now.

My mother shuffles into my kitchen, which is really just two beige counter tops, the world's smallest stove, and a fridge behind the living room sofa. The perils and pitfalls of living in a studio apartment in Sugardove City. Even with a high-paying tech job like mine, I can scarcely afford to live with my rent constantly going up every year.

That, and I might be spending most of my income on my own private projects. Whoops. Yeah, yeah. I know I shouldn't, but my lifestyle is sadly an expensive one. And there's no cost too great in the pursuit of knowledge. Or at least… that's what I tell myself to justify going into credit card debt month after month.

I've thought about moving to cut down on the rent, but where would I even go? I'm already in the cheapest neighborhood, with the lowest rent in the city, and moving to Pine Crest would be too far of a commute to the office. Nope. I'm stuck here for now, at least until a better-paying position comes along. I wince and flop down onto the sofa next to Bonnet while Mom busies herself with the electric teakettle.

"I don't need to ice it, Mom," I say for the fourth time since she got here. She's only been here for five minutes. My mother is a kind, gentle woman, but she loves showing up the most random and inconvenient times. Usually, it's to complain about the squirrels in her backyard, who she swears are secretly part of a cult and working for her neighbors to spy on her. You get used to it. "Can we not do this?"

"Do what?" she yells over the clanging of pots and pans. I wince as I twist around, trying to see what manner of chaos she's getting into now. "Talk? You never call me! How am I supposed to know what's going on in my son's life if he never calls me?"

I sigh, rub my temples, and take off my classes so I can clean them. "I've been busy with this deadline, like I told you last week. And the week before."

She drops one of my favorite mugs, the one with my company's logo on it, in the sink. There's a loud bang followed by water splattering everywhere. I leap to my feet, but she's already shaking her head and tutting to herself. "Shoo, shoo. It's fine, it's fine. Didn't even hurt it," she insists, waving me off like I'm a stray dog and not, you know, the person who lives here. "Go sit. Relax. Let me make you some tea. And put those peas on your crotch, baby."

I suppress the urge to gag as I grab the bag of peas and drop them onto the coffee table.

"Mom, don't ever talk about my crotch ever again, okay?"

My mother, ever the unphased one, shrugs as she pours the boiling water into a different mug. "What? I'm your mother, for cryin' out loud! I birthed you, bathed you, changed your diapers?—"

This is an old song and dance of ours. Ever since I moved out of my mother's basement five years ago—at the age of twenty-eight, mind you—she's been … a lot. You question her, even a little? Suddenly you're in for an earful about how it took her forty-eight hours of agonizing labor to pop you out and she couldn't even have an epidural. And then the ripping, so much ripping they had to spend an eternity stitching her back up. Trust me, it's enough to make you want to move to another state, or even another country, just to get away from it.

I give her a peck on the cheek as she dunks the tea bag into the mug and hands it to me. "Thanks, Mom. Listen, why don't you relax today? Go check on your garden."

Mom's eyebrows lift, and then she sucks her bottom lip between her teeth before saying, "Oh, I couldn't. I simply don't have the time. Maybe later. Maybe when there's actually something for me to do over there."

"There's always something for you to do over there," I say as I lean against the kitchen counter. I inhale the spicy aroma of the chai. My mom always makes the best cup of tea, and I still have no idea how she does it, even when I watch her make it from start to finish. "Besides, when was the last time you saw Rhoda and Marley? They're probably getting worried sick about you."

My mother rolls her eyes. "Bah. They're sick all right, but not because they're worried. Rhoda's got a nasty cold and Marley's been dating some new beau of hers. I'm much more worried about you. All alone on your rooftop with your crazy science experiments, living in here like a sad bachelor."

She gestures to my living room, and I wince. I know what's coming. I should have pushed her out the door sooner, before she could really get started. Now it's too late. I'm cooked.

"All alone for years in this cramped apartment! With your salary, you could afford a house, Calvin. Why don't you buy one of those new homes on the river they're putting up?" she asks, abruptly changing the topic. Which … I'm also used to. Because she does this every time I see her. When are you moving out and into a proper home? When are you going to get married and give me grandchildren? When are you going to own the company? Or any company, for that matter?

She is right about one thing, though: I do love spending time on the rooftop with my "crazy" science experiments, and the fact that I'm not up there right now with the Shrinkatron is making me twitchy. Lately, I've been obsessed with the damn thing, but that's because I'm so close to perfecting it. I know I am. It just needs a little more testing, is all.

Mom waltzes into the living room and sets her own tea mug down on the coffee table, and I immediately slip a coaster underneath it.

"What? You think your table's made of mahogany or something? It's plastic, honey. Don't be precious. It'll wipe off," she clucks, then sits down next to me, almost squashing the cat.

I wince. "M-Mom, Bonnet?—"

Bonnet lets out a cranky meow and hops down onto the rug before tossing a glare at my mother, then sauntering off to my bed in the far corner.

"Oh, she'll get over it. She always does." Mom flaps her hand dismissively as Bonnet climbs onto my bed and curls up to nap again. I reach for my steaming tea mug and inhale the scent of chai, lavender, and … something else. Something is different about this cup of tea today.

"Did you put honey in this?" I ask, arching an eyebrow.

She nods, her pink-stained lips pulling back into a wide smile. There's lipstick on her teeth, but I don't say anything. "Your brother's new bees. Do you like it?"

I take a sip of the tea and relish the warmth that spreads throughout my body. It's the middle of summer, but I still prefer my tea hot, not iced, and this is perfect.

"Yeah, it's delicious. But since when did Elvis get into beekeeping?" I ask.

"Oh, who knows. You know how your brother is, always getting caught up in something new," Mom mutters. She glances around the living room and takes in the newly framed portrait I hung up behind the bed. The Artist's Garden at Giverny, by Monet. It was just something I found randomly in a box during one of the weekend markets and thought was pretty, so I brought it home.

She sneers at the print and says, "Gaudy thing. When did you get that? And when are you moving out?"

I run a palm down my face, suppressing the urge to groan. "Because I don't need all that space. It'll be annoying to clean."

My mother's nose scrunches as she takes in the state of my kitchen and living area. "You don't clean what you've got now."

I check the clock above my fridge and frown. It's almost five, and I haven't even managed to run those experiments yet because I was at that stupid company picnic. Okay, I get that the picnics are meant to facilitate teamwork and camaraderie with our co-workers … but truth be told, I don't think anyone would give a shit if I skipped them outright. All I got out of it today was a mediocre hot dog and a bruised groin.

"Listen, Mom, I appreciate your visits, but?—"

My mother puts her hands up in defeat, gets up off the couch, grabs the bag of peas, and starts for the door. "I get it, I get it. Just…" She stops in front of the doorway for a second before whirling around to brush her hand against my cheek. "Think about it, okay? You don't deserve to be all alone in here like this forever."

Just as she says that, Bonnet brushes up against my leg and purrs loudly. Right on cue. It's her dinner time. I look down and smile at her. My mother has never enjoyed pets of any kind, so she barely manages to glance at the cat. "I'm not alone. I've got Bonnet, here."

My mother rolls her eyes again. "Oh, please. The cat can't give me grandchildren."

I roll my eyes. "No, because she's spayed."

"Kittens are not a substitute for flesh and blood human babies," Mom admonishes. I don't agree with her about that. Kids have never been my thing. But I wouldn't mind having a litter of kittens around to take care of. Maybe once Bonnet's gone, I'll think about fostering some.

She pats me on the cheek and gives me the look. The one that says she isn't going to let up until I literally push her out the door. Then she foists the bag of peas back onto me, and I cringe.

"I can't afford a town house," I say, setting the bag of peas down on the table next to my tea.

Mom looks past me and sneers at the painting again like it personally insulted her and stole all of her bingo money.

I sigh. "Mom. It's not gaudy. It's an impressionist painting."

This should be the point in the conversation where she leaves, but then she says, "Elvis told me he wants you to call him. Has something he needs."

I let out a groan. Elvis, my younger brother, always seems to need something from me. It's the only time he talks to me these days. We were never close. The second he hit puberty, he went in an entirely different direction in his life and never looked back. I was happy for him when he got that job at Fletcher & Sons, a prestigious financial firm in the city, but I swear it made him into an even bigger asshat than he already was.

"Fine," I grind out. If it'll get her to relax for two seconds, I'll do it. "I'll call him."

"You know I hate it when my babies aren't getting along," Mom murmurs. Here we go again. This is more exhausting than usual, probably because of the day I had. She'll leave, eventually. She has to. At some point, she'll get hungry and realize there's nothing here for her to cook with and move on. Right? Right?

"Your babies are thirty-three and twenty-eight. We aren't not getting along. We're just … busy with our own lives." I sigh. No. She's right. We aren't getting along, but it's not like it's a new development. She should be used to this by now.

Mom clucks like a chicken again and fiddles with the ends of her dress sleeves. Maybe I can beat her at her own game.

"Hey, Mom, it's a million degrees out. Why are you still wearing your winter dresses? Where's the new one I bought you two weeks ago?" I ask, hopeful she'll take the bait.

"Don't change the subject," she scolds. So much for that. "I want you and El to come by this Friday for supper. We haven't had a family dinner in years."

We haven't had a family dinner since Dad died from a stroke. I guess he was holding the family together, because once he was gone, everything seemed to fall apart. Not in an earth-shattering, cataclysmic way but the kind of falling apart that's slow and imperceptible, at least at first. Missed dinners, re-scheduled outings. Promises of tomorrows that never came. Until one day, we all just sort of … stopped trying. Except for Mom, of course, who has always tried to hold on to the past like it's sand sifting through her fingers.

I won't lie. I've felt guilty for years over letting everything just sort of die the way it has. This is important to her.

"Okay," I say, sitting upright and mustering a smile for her. It doesn't reach my eyes, I know that, but she doesn't notice. She grabs the bag of peas and places it down into my lap. "Mom, seriously."

"Keep the peas on your crotch, sweetheart. It'll help," she says. Again. At this point I'd be happy to never see another frozen vegetable as long as I live.

"Look, I'll call Elvis and get him to come for dinner on Friday if you agree to never, ever speak of this again, okay?" I get up from the sofa, make my way into the kitchen, and drop the bag of peas back onto the counter. I'm going to toss these in the trash once she leaves, of course.

"Fine, fine," Mom says as she waves her hands at me, then passes by the bed to scratch Bonnet between the ears. Honestly, she's so hot and cold with animals that it takes me a second to realize she isn't hurting Bonnet, but rather petting her.

"Bye-bye to you, too, Tansy," she coos.

I pinch the spot between my brows. "Mom, that's Bonnet. Tansy passed away five years ago."

Then Mom stops in front of the doorway, like she's forgotten something but can't remember what. I frown as I loom behind her.

"Mom…?" My hand hovers over her shoulder. She whirls around and smiles at me, but it's like she's a million miles away on her own private island. I kiss her on the cheek. "Get home safely. Text me when you get there, okay?"

"Sure, sweetheart," she says, her voice light and melodic. "I'll do that. Love you."

"I love you, too, Mom," I say, and hold the door open for her.

Then she heads out, leaving me and Bonnet to fend for ourselves for dinner. Thank god for that. I slide my phone out of my back jeans pocket and smile down at the cat.

"What do you want to order?" I ask. "Pizza?"

Bonnet blinks slowly at me, and I blink back. Maybe Mom's right. It's not healthy for me to be living alone with only the cat for company. But until they invent a dating app that doesn't actually suck, Bonnet is all I have for now.

"Okay. Can of tuna, it is," I say, and grab my wallet and glasses from the coffee table. I toss the peas into the trash can before heading out into the sweltering, soup-like air to find us both some dinner.