Chapter 15 - Noah Asked Us To Come To The Same Game
Six months later, the old parking-lot clip still existed online.
That was the part nobody could repair.
Most copies had faded into the internet's basement.
Some remained.
Occasionally somebody recognized Ryan.
Once, at a grocery store, a man told him:
“Keep fighting, brother.”
Ryan came home from that encounter and threw up.
He told me later.
Not because he wanted sympathy.
Because we had started telling each other things before they became ammunition.
Not everything.
Enough.
The channel was gone.
Ryan still recorded videos.
Private ones.
Mostly himself talking.
He told me that during coffee after a school conference.
“Why?”
“Habit.”
“Do you watch them?”
“Sometimes.”
“Post?”
“No.”
“What do you talk about?”
He smiled.
“None of your business.”
Fair.
I still kept notes.
Not about Noah's complaints.
Calendar information.
Expenses.
Medical appointments.
Actual co-parenting records.
My attorney had taught me documentation could be boring.
Boring had become attractive.
Noah's custodial account existed.
So did a written agreement that any future income directly connected to his licensed image or participation would be handled separately.
There was currently no such income.
He preferred it that way.
Then came spring baseball.
Noah had his first Saturday afternoon game.
Ryan's weekend.
I assumed I would sit somewhere else.
Maybe opposite bleachers.
That was how we'd done sports since separation.
Friday night, Noah texted our three-person family thread.
Can you both sit together tomorrow?
I stared at it.
Ryan replied first.
If Mom is okay with it.
I almost typed:
Sure.
Then stopped.
Noah had asked both.
Not one parent to grant the other access.
I wrote:
I’m okay with it. Ryan?
Ryan:
Yes.
Saturday was bright and windy.
Ryan arrived with two coffees.
He handed me one.
“You still drink this?”
“Unfortunately.”
We sat near first base.
Noah saw us from the dugout.
He tried not to smile.
Failed.
No cameras.
At least not ours.
Parents all around us took photos constantly.
That was strange now.
A mother two rows down livestreamed part of the game for grandparents.
Nobody treated it like a moral crisis.
Because cameras were not the enemy.
Power was somewhere in the details.
Who knew.
Who agreed.
Who could say stop.
Who benefited.
Who was allowed to have a bad day without it becoming material.
Noah struck out his first time.
He came back to the dugout furious.
Ryan's hand moved toward his pocket.
Stopped.
I saw.
He saw me see.
“Score app,” he whispered.
I smiled.
“Sure.”
He pulled out his phone.
Opened the league scoring app.
Set it on his knee.
Noah's second at-bat, he hit a double.
Ryan jumped up yelling.
So did I.
Noah stood on second trying to act like he couldn't hear us.
After the inning, he looked over.
Ryan lifted his phone instinctively.
Then paused.
He pointed at it.
Photo?
Noah shook his head.
Ryan put it away.
No complaint.
No disappointed face.
The moment happened anyway.
Later, after the game, Noah ran over covered in dirt.
“We won.”
“We noticed,” I said.
Ryan held up a fist.
Noah bumped it.
Then he looked between us.
“Can we get pizza?”
Ryan looked at me.
I looked at him.
Old habit would have turned this into jurisdiction.
Whose weekend.
Whose dinner.
Who pays.
Who loses time.
Ryan said:
“Your call.”
To Noah.
I almost corrected him.
Then paused.
This wasn't custody.
It was pizza.
Noah said:
“Both.”
Ryan looked at me.
I thought.
“Okay.”
We went to a place near the field.
Three people in a booth.
Not a reunited family.
Not a content-friendly redemption ending.
Ryan and I were still divorced.
We still irritated each other.
We still had lawyers' phone numbers saved.
There were subjects we avoided because we had not learned how to touch them without drawing blood.
At dinner, Noah asked:
“Are you guys friends now?”
Ryan almost answered.
I saw him stop.
He looked at me.
I said:
“Sometimes.”
Ryan smiled.
“That's fair.”
Noah frowned.
“What does that mean?”
I looked at his father.
Ryan looked back.
Neither of us had a clean answer.
Noah rolled his eyes and returned to his pizza.
A few minutes later, the server offered to take a picture of us.
Ryan froze.
So did I.
The server looked confused.
Noah laughed.
“You guys are so weird.”
Then he thought about it.
He handed the server his own phone.
“One picture.”
The three of us leaned in.
Ryan did not put his arm around me.
I did not pretend we were something we weren't.
Noah stood between us because this time he chose to.
The server took the photo.
Noah checked it.
“Good.”
He saved it.
Then slipped the phone into his pocket.
Ryan asked:
“You gonna post that?”
Noah looked horrified.
“No.”
Ryan nodded.
May you like
“Okay.”
And that was where the picture stayed.
