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Something’s up with Ben and has been since he came home last night.
Completely bombed.
Arm slung around Bowie’s shoulders.
Both men looking suspiciously like they may have been crying.
Bowie sloppily passed him off to me, leaving Ben with a wordless fist-bump before turning down the hall toward the room that used to be his, then backtracking, bumping into the doorframe, and finally making his way out.
Yes, I texted with Piper to make sure he made it the one floor up and got home safely.
This morning, Ben was up before me— typical —but instead of working out, he was just staring out the window— not typical.
I went to work. Came home. And guess who was still staring out the window?
Enough’s enough.
“You’re being weird.” And in case I needed more evidence, Ben makes a face. Waves a dismissive hand through the air, twice. And then makes this sort of pfft sound… all within a span of about two seconds.
Totally weird.
After more weird window staring, followed by weird aimless walking around the apartment, he comes back to where I’m working on the couch and drops onto the cushions at the far side, leaving a few inches between his hip and my toes.
I resist the impulse to slide my feet into his lap, digging my toes into the space between the cushions instead. “Boomer?”
Those big blues snap to attention. “What?”
“Everything okay with you?”
God, I hope it’s not his job. He’s been working so hard to be ready for the team training camp next Monday. He hasn’t said anything— at least not to me.
Maybe that’s what last night was about.
Maybe he talked to Bowie.
A flurry of emotions pass over his face, none lasting long enough to stick. And then, instead of answering, he asks, “You’re coming tomorrow, right?”
“The thing at the arena for family members?” I set my laptop on the coffee table. It’s the team putting it on… sooo whatever’s bothering him, it’s not a work thing?
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know. It was really nice of you to invite me, but?—”
“It’s for our friends and family.” He reaches for my foot and pulls it into his lap, that funky mood clearing as the seconds stretch. “You’ve known me, Bowie, and Piper since high school… So, friend. But hell, at this point, you probably count more as family anyway.”
I’m not so sure about that. “But?—”
My dad’s ringtone plays on my phone, and for a beat, confusion muddles my thoughts. It’s not Sunday.
“Lara. Hey, you okay?” Ben asks, his eyes shifting between mine, the phone on the coffee table, and my shaking hand as I try to reach for the phone. But I’m sitting weird and it’s just out of reach, so Ben hands it to me as I sit up.
“Dad? What’s wrong? Are you okay?” I ask, stomach in knots.
“I’m fine, Lara. The job is fine, money’s fine, apartment’s fine.”
Most people probably don’t start calls with their family like this. It’s a routine we’ve adopted over the years to reduce the ulcer-breeding anxiety that tended to accompany calls from my dad.
There was only ever one really bad call, but it was the kind that stuck with you.
