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Me:
This good, or do we need to have plans drawn up?
The next morning, on his way to his current job site, Danny drops off a storage trailer so that I can temporarily keep the items that are worth keeping and the few things that I can never see myself letting go of—like Dad’s and Mom’s ball gloves. They’ll be stored in a dry, safe place until the garage is finished.
I need to keep busy because I’m feeling shit now. Heavy shit, damn near crippling shit. For close to a decade and a half, I’ve kept my foot firmly planted on my feelings, holding them down. Until now. Suppressed memories are rising out from under the dust without warning each day. A volcano of emotions is slowly coming to a boil just beneath the surface that I can’t seem to gain control of.
Tearing off the rotting roof and the battered boards to ready the garage for the addition is all that’s keeping me from grabbing Whitley and demanding that we sort through the dirt and debris that was shoveled on our friendship—shit that was not within our control.
I’m exhausted. The sun is slowly making its descent in the west, but I’d have kept pulling boards had I not heard a distinct sound. First the crack of a wooden bat and then the deep laugh that could not be mistaken for anyone other than Pastor B.
I round the corner of the house and see him and Nora in the field, playing a little ball. I hose myself off a bit, throw on the tee I hung over the back porch banister, and walk across the lawn.
Nora drops the ball and runs to me. “Wanna play?”
“I’d love to,” I admit.
And that’s what we do; we play. And we play some more. Before they head back, I get a hug from her instead of a high five.
After ball, I shower when I get back to the house. I am about ready to get at the garage boards again to stop myself from heading to the Med Center and faking a heart attack or some shit when Danny and Marks pull in, shining the headlights on the garage, no doubt checking on my progress. Then, they pull around back, which I can’t complain about since the side yard is already gonna be rutted up from the storage trailer and the trucks delivering supplies.
The engine is killed, and two doors shut. I hear them commenting on my progress as they walk around and make their way to the front porch.
“Beer?” Marks asks, carrying a cooler in one hand.
“Wouldn’t mind one.”
He hands me a can of Crawford Bock.
“You go all the way to Houston to get this?”
“Always gonna hold up hope that you’ll be back in Texas.” Marks pops his tab. “Don’t get to the stadium much anymore, so I’m bringing the stadium to us.”
“Cheers to that.” Danny holds out his bottle of water, and we all tap our drinks, then take a swig.
“You sure you need a crew here?” Marks asks.
“Looks like you got this under control.” Danny chuckles.
“He needs an electrician.” Marks nods to the front porch light.
“Lights work, but they draw the bugs,” I explain.
Marks chuckles. “Not a lot of bugs flying around here in February.”
“Right?” I scrub my hand over my hair. “Seems like spring here.”
“Speaking of spring, when do you head to Florida for training?”
“Seventeenth of next month is day one. Preseason games start a week later.” I take a long pull off my beer and clear my throat. “Wondering if you’d all like to come to Vegas and watch me play next week. There’re two exhibition games, Thursday and Friday. It’s closer than New York and?—”
“The answer is fuck yes.” Danny laughs. “We’re going to Vegas, baby.”
“I’ll make it work on my end. Wouldn’t want you to have to deal with this guy alone,” Marks adds.
I turn and look at Danny. “Not easy for a man who’s seldom wrong to say he’s sorry, but I hear I owe you an apology.”
He lets out an amused laugh. “Still a self-righteous motherfucker.”
