MARCH
Five months later
@JenWertherPDX: Gene Ionescu, who helped lead the Beaverton Beavers to the Triple-A championship last season, has made the major league roster out of Spring Training. For the first time in his career, he breaks camp with the Lumberjacks, & looks to be their starting 2B next year. (½)
@JenWertherPDX: It promises to be an exciting season for Ionescu, who had a rough start in the majors last summer but went on to win the MVP Award with Beaverton. He hit .402 for Portland in Spring Training, with two home runs—quite literally played his way into the lineup. (2/2)
@JenWertherPDX: (And, just for fun: here’s a picture of recently retired former teammate Luis Estrada in the stands behind home plate. Note the number zero jersey.)
“How attached are you to these mugs?”
“Why?”
Gene holds one in front of Luis’s face. “Because you have eight of them and they are all identical.”
“They’re nice mugs.”
“Exactly. You should have two nice mugs and ten shitty mugs.”
“Why?”
“You only use the nice ones for guests who won’t find your shitty mugs funny.” Gene pulls one out of his kitchen box and holds it up. “Like, see, I wouldn’t want to give this chipped one to my tata. But he could use the Star Trek mug. And I’d want a nice one to give to your mom when she visits”—he holds up an example—“because I’m trying to impress her.”
“My mom likes Star Trek.”
“See? So we don’t need yours.”
“I’m not getting rid of them, Nes.”
“Then I guess we have twenty mugs.”
“It’s a good thing we have all this cabinet space, then, isn’t it?”
From Gene’s perch on the countertop, he surveys their new apartment. Bright, with plenty of room for bookshelves and picture frames. Luis is right about the cabinets, too—abundant, many of them too high for Gene to reach—and the whole place feels this way: spacious, but not cavernous. Comfortable, but nowhere near boring. They stand in the kitchen, barefoot and comfortable and only halfway unpacked. Luis wears a soft T-shirt and tight jeans, hair tucked behind his ears. Since the season ended, he has let it grow just a little shaggy, closer to how he used to wear it.
Luis got started on the unpacking over his spring break, while Gene was playing the final few games of Spring Training. Gene’s Triple-A Championship MVP Award and Luis’s second consecutive Gold Glove sit on the mantel, bracketing a printed and framed copy of the Futures Game picture. They kept Gene’s bed—not particularly fancy but eminently theirs—and the coffee table. On the wall next to Luis’s desk, they’ve picked a spot where his diploma will hang above Gene’s when, in three months, he finally gets to walk across that stage.
When the time came, they opted for a one-bedroom, more expensive than Gene could have afforded or even considered on his own a year ago. They could have looked for a two-bedroom, for plausible deniability, but everyone on Gene’s new team already knows about them anyway.
Relatedly, although Gene never checks Twitter anymore, Ernie has made a habit of texting him and Luis the best comments he sees, ever since the championship game. Gene’s favorite is a picture of him and Luis after their win, crashed into each other in a hug, the outer letters of each other’s names barely visible on their backs. A Beavers fan—a bisexual flag spelled out in hearts in their display name—has scribbled big red circles over their jerseys and captioned it with a particularly enthusiastic keysmash, then three question marks, then the rainbow flag emoji, followed by a longer set of question marks.
Ernie, the only other Beaverton player to make Portland’s Opening Day roster, asked their permission before liking that one.
And for the first time since signing his contract, Gene didn’t have to spend his offseason working a second job. He has instead taken daily trips to the Lumberjacks training facilities and started learning the names and faces around the stadium the way he got to know Beaverton’s. He has gotten rained on in the nature park a half-mile away and almost convinced his Californian boyfriend to stop carrying an umbrella everywhere. More than anything, he has taken the time to live.
Today, that includes: a slow morning with Luis, a shared jog through Northwest Portland, an equally shared shower, a bit of unpacking, and, finally, a baby shower, for which Gene still needs to fill out the card.
“Just write ‘Congrats’ and that you’re happy for them,” Luis says. He leans over to look at what Gene has scribbled. “Or that works, too.”
Altzy & Jack—Glad you’re staying in Portland so I can be the first one to sniff the baby’s head, xoxo Nes (& Nada)
After the season ended and they got ready to start their house hunt in earnest, Vince received an offer: pitching coach for the University of Oregon, working under the reigning Triple-A Manager of the Year, living in a smaller town and a quieter area nine months out of the year, just like they wanted, with school breaks off to spend with his new family in whatever city they pleased.
So, instead of buying a place in Bend, he and Jack kept the Portland house, less than fifteen minutes away from Gene and Luis’s new place, and, as soon as their adoption application went through, started renovating the extra bedroom in pale green and soft lavender.
The chances of any of them winding up back in Beaverton next year are slim. Teams, and places—they’re transient. The Beavers won’t look how they did when they were Gene’s family, but they will be there, different but resolute, ready to play some Oregon baseball. Gene will do the same, with Portland, fifteen miles and thirty minutes down the highway.
Gene slips the card into the envelope. He knit a blanket, too, in a nice array of greens. Never a master of the deadline, Gene stayed up late last night to finish it in time, but he managed to get it washed and blocked before lying down, and Luis wrapped a thick ribbon around it this morning.
“Do you think they’ll name the baby after me?” Gene asks.
“I thought they picked a name,” Luis says.
“Yeah, but I think that’s a decoy.”
“A decoy baby name?”
“So they can surprise me.”
Luis nudges Gene’s legs apart to stand between them and drops a brief kiss on Gene’s lips. “I’m sure that’s it, Nes.”
Gene crosses his fingers while he pops the card into the gift bag.
“Do we have time to unpack another box before we head out?” Luis asks, already turning to survey the boxes still waiting to be opened.
“I’m not getting in another fight about the dishware.”
“It wasn’t a fight.”
“Fine, I’m not getting in another spat,” Gene says.
Nevertheless, Luis has started picking his way through the remaining cardboard towers, inspecting box after box and not opening any of them.
“You’ve walked past three perfectly unpackable boxes,” Gene points out. If he lived alone, they would all remain half-packed for six months minimum. He appreciates that Luis kept the ball rolling, but also, fuck if it isn’t a pain in the ass.
“I’m looking for a specific one,” Luis says.
Gene tips his head back against the cabinets. “Great. He’s looking for a specific one,” he says to Dodger.
Luis lifts the box labeled KitchenAid, etc. onto the counter next to Gene.
“You have some important mixing to get done?”
“You’re being—”
“—impatient. Yes.”
Luis rips the tape off the box and hefts the aforementioned appliance out and into the spot they chose for it. The deep red looks nice against the tiled backsplash, and Gene has to take a moment to awe at the fact that he lives somewhere with a backsplash.
“Are you satisfied?” Gene asks when Luis has plugged the thing in and made sure it works.
“Just about.”
“If you want to finish the kitchen, we’re going to be late.”
Luis holds up one finger as he ducks his head to look through the dish towels he used like packing peanuts. They’ll need to be washed, but they don’t exactly have time to throw a load in if they want to be on time.
“Nada.”
“Found it. Close your eyes.”
Gene does as he’s told, but not without making an exasperated face. Between the two of them, he is usually the one to make them late to social gatherings.
“Okay, open them,” Luis instructs after a brief interlude of rustling.
“Nada, if you’re trying to propose to me, I’m going to kill you.”
Not that he doesn’t want Luis to, eventually—just not yet. He hasn’t even gotten halfway sick of calling Luis his boyfriend. He wants to enjoy every moment of that before they move on to other words.
“No, I’d give you a heads-up,” Luis says.
“Then I’m safe to look?”
“Nes.”
When Gene does, Luis is standing there with a stack of shirts in his hand. No—jerseys. The number zero sits in the middle, with Gene’s last name curved over the top, each patch embroidered in deep green on a background of pale mint over a mountain range intended to fall right above a waistband. Someone, probably Luis, folded the jerseys lovingly, so the back shows in full prideful glory, and when Gene lifts one, the fabric unfurls. The same sweat-wicking stuff he wears every day, but fresh and slightly chemical-scented, as if it just came out of a box in a warehouse, rather than having hung in the closet or a locker stall and gotten laundered after each game.
It’s bigger than the one Gene usually wears—an extra-large to his small, the sleeves long enough to reach past Gene’s elbows. It wouldn’t fit him, and it wouldn’t fit Luis.
“Okay, I’m definitely missing something,” Gene says.
“Guess where I got those,” Luis says.
“Where?”
“Guess.”
Gene leans in and, his lips against Luis’s, says, “Just tell me.”
“The team store,” he says.
“No you didn’t.” Gene backs up to stare at him, wide-eyed.
“I did.”
Gene holds them to his face and inhales the smell, and he recognizes it now. The smell of a store-ironed shirt, hung up and crammed together with other fabric, never allowed to breathe until someone buys it and wears it and uses their favorite laundry detergent on it.
“When did they start selling these?” Gene asks. “No one told me.”
“Me neither. I walked by when I came to pick you up the other day, and they were just…there.”
“Hanging up?”
“Right in the window,” Luis confirms. He leans his elbows on Gene’s knees, face expectant.
“Why?”
“Because people are going to want them.”
Gene tries not to cry at that. He really does. And still his voice shakes when he asks, “And these are for—?”
“Your dads, Joey, and Mattie.” He tips his head down to where Dodger has leaned his chin on Gene’s leg and adds, “I asked if they’d make one for a dog, but no luck yet.”
Gene sets them aside and holds Luis by the face. “You are an idiot for paying for these. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. I got one for myself, too. Before they sold out.”
Gene rolls his eyes and kisses him, a solid, purposeful thing. “How much did this trip run you?”
“Oh”—he wrinkles his nose—“I’d rather not say.”
“I love you.”
“Even though I’m an idiot?”
“Yeah. You’re my idiot.”
Luis holds him by the waist, his hands familiar and warm over the thin fabric of Gene’s shirt. “I love you, too.” He gives Gene a kiss, his teeth light against Gene’s lip, and then, their noses still touching, he says, “You can pay me back in installments.”
Gene pulls him in closer and gives his lip a bite in return. “That could be arranged.”
They kiss, slow and deliberate, in their kitchen until the alarm on Gene’s phone alerts him that it really, actually is time for them to go, and then they kiss for a few minutes longer. When the backup alarm goes off and Luis starts to pull away, Gene wraps his legs around Luis’s waist and holds him a little tighter.
“Ten more minutes,” Gene insists.
He tugs Luis back in with his heels against the small of Luis’s back, and if Luis slides a hand between Gene’s legs for those ten extra minutes, no one has to know. If Luis has a hickey under the collar of his T-shirt, no one but Gene will see it anyway.
When they finally do peel themselves apart, Gene sends a quick text to Baker, Sorry sorry, running late, and receives a quick response.
No worries. See you soon.
“She said no worries,” Gene says.
“Yes.”
“So what I’m hearing is, we can keep kissing.”
Luis grabs Gene’s shoes, setting them into Gene’s waiting, upturned palms.
“Later,” Luis says.
And, really, they have all week to kiss. The season starts tomorrow, and Luis will go back to California in a week to finish his final term at Stanford. But until then, they have a full seven days of home games left to fool around in their kitchen, their living room, their bedroom. They have all summer, and the offseason after that. A whole life ahead of them, if they want it.
Watching Luis slip his boots on, a curl falling onto his forehead and the early-afternoon sun bright through the windows, Gene knows—he will always want this lanky, anxious, beautiful dumbass. It will never get old, kissing him in this kitchen or the next. Waking up next to him, talking to him each day before anyone else.
So Gene lets himself want Luis, and this unlikely little life they have. No caveats, no asterisks, no gimmicks—he wants, and he wants, and he lets himself have it.