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It’s a warm day. Sun’s shining. White clouds. All the poetic shit. Fall’s like this in Kentucky. Rainy and cold one day, warm and sunny the next. Keeps going like this until December and then it’s nothing but gray clouds and balls-fall-off freezing until mid-March.
I’ve been here at Cyrus’s for a few days. Violet was released from the hospital last night. Right before they were about to release both of us, she hobbled to the bathroom and vomited.
Hospital kept her until she could hold food down. Some doctors thought it was a stomach bug. A few thought it was an allergic reaction. Others thought it was some sort of Acute Stress Disorder. After she got over that, the specialist kept her in for her knee. First they thought they were going to do surgery, then the MRI showed the damage wasn’t as bad as they thought. They ended up giving her physical therapy for treatment.
Either way, I hated being away from her.
“Razor’s quiet.” I motion to our best friend, who’s walking across the field, away from us. “You don’t complain about him.”
“He was born quiet. She was born to tell us what we’re doing wrong.” Oz takes after his mother with black hair, and like his father, he’s tall, has fists like a brick wall, and he’s a patched-in member.
He’s a year older than me and, like Razor, I consider him a brother. Violet, Razor, Oz and I grew up together on this property. Slept in the old log cabin house that Cyrus calls home. His wife, Olivia, used to help us catch fireflies in this field on late summer nights.
Across the yard is a two-story three-car garage that was converted into the clubhouse for the Terror. The day is nice enough that the garage doors are rolled up. Some of the guys inside are watching the TV over the bar. A few are playing pool in the corner.
The four of us learned how to crawl on those sticky floors, played tag in the crowd during the hundreds of family dinners the club had as we grew up. Hell, I first found the courage to take Violet’s hand on the picnic table Pigpen’s currently sitting on as he drinks a beer.
He’s been Violet’s shadow since Eli left town with Cyrus a few days ago.
“Violet’s talking,” I say.
The look of utter disbelief is warranted. Violet is talking again, but she’s not herself. Spends more time silently watching than letting her thoughts roll off her tongue. It’s making every guy in the club, including me, edgy.
But then again, I only got to see her in a crowded hospital room, and since she’s been home, her brother has been stuck tight to her. As much as I want a few minutes alone with her, Stone deserves this time with his sister. He needs to know she’s okay and that it’s not his fault we were taken.
“Leave her be, okay?” If Violet wants to stay quiet, she can stay quiet. If she wants to run through the clubhouse like a crazy person and break every glass in sight, she can do that, too. “Violet saved her brother’s life. Saved mine, too.”
“I’m not coming down on her, I’m concerned. I know Violet and I haven’t gotten along lately, but I still love her.”
My gut twists because that’s how I feel about her silence, too, but Violet’s got too many people in her face hoping and praying she’ll return to normal. Each hour that passes, I’m beginning to realize they want her to act normal so they can start to feel better about what happened. It’s how people are also acting around me.
They smile too big. Pause for too long. Can’t seem to find easy conversation. It’s uncomfortable and it doesn’t help this strange sensation that I’ve had since leaving the hospital. Like the rest of the world is moving in fast-forward and I’m creeping along in slow motion.
Fucking sucks.
Razor turns and raises his arms. Rebecca finally cleared me to start exercising. It’s been driving me insane to do nothing but watch TV. The faster I can get back to football, the faster my life will return to normal.
I pull my arm back, then launch the ball into the air. A perfect spiral with a perfect arc. Razor catches it and I circle my shoulder. Every damn muscle in my body was bruised and due to the inactivity is now stiffer than roadkill.
“Looking good,” Oz says.
It’s not the throwing I’m concerned about. That’s not my job. It’s the running while plowing through a line of guys, all while catching. I hold my hands up and Razor fires it back. Like I asked, he threw it to the side and I jog the few feet. I’m able to easily catch it, holding it close to my chest.
Thanks to muscle memory, my feet automatically cut right as if I’m in a game and need to lose my defender. But I don’t do a full-on sprint. Instead, I throw the ball back to Razor and pause to stretch.
The deep grumbling of multiple motorcycle engines. Cyrus and Eli have been gone since I woke up here after my hospital stay and it pisses me off that nobody’s told me why they left or where they went. The group of six guys pull off to the side of the clubhouse and park. They cut their engines and the yard goes quiet.
After the last guy swings off his bike, the birds chirp again in the thick forest of trees surrounding Cyrus’s property and the clubhouse springs to life as the guys who were hanging out near the bar pile out into the yard. They offer quick hugs and fast pats.
Cyrus glances in my direction. Normally, I’m a patient guy. Would let Cyrus come to me when he’s ready to talk, but I must have left all my patience in that hellhole basement.
Most of the guys head into the clubhouse, but Cyrus stays behind. “Saw you as we drove up. You looked good making the catch.”
Not discussing football. “Where have you been? And don’t tell me on a run for the security business. We both know that would be bullshit.”
Cyrus strokes his long beard and he regards Violet
on the porch. “She doing okay?”
