"Stop texting and driving, Ads," I tell her.
"Dude, you're such an old man."
"I'm barely forty, and besides, aren't you happy I'm home?" I jut out my bottom lip and stare at my little sister until she looks at me.
It's been months since we've been together, and I've missed her. We've always been close, despite our seventeen-year age difference, but she's been distant the last year or so. Wrapped up in her own life, which is understandable at her age. We still text and FaceTime, but not as often as we used to and it's not the same as living in the same house. My constant presence will be an adjustment for her. I'll be interrupting her routine, whatever the hell that consists of.
She rolls her eyes. "Dude, you're not barely forty. You turned forty-one like last week." A huff leaves her lips. "How long, big bro?"
I shrug and look out the window. Taking over my parents' first-floor bedroom wasn't what I planned for retirement either. "Not sure, Ads, I guess until I can find another rental or go back home to Baltimore. I didn't ask for this."
She shakes her head in disbelief. "I still can't believe your rental caught fire."
That email came six hours into mine and Dad's eight-hour drive from Baltimore to my hometown, Wilmont, Tennessee. Unfortunately, the next closest rental available is an hour away, and Mom was having none of that. By the time we pulled into the driveway, she had it all arranged. I'd sleep in her and Dad's room on the first floor for the time being, and they'd take over my old room upstairs.
I text Susan, my personal assistant, and ask her if she's come across any more rentals. She wastes no time texting me back that she's retired herself and no longer works for me.
Well, shit.
Addie presses the gas, and I lurch forward.
"Fuck. Try to remember I'm fresh out of knee surgery, please?"
"Sorry," she says, and at least she has the decency to wince.
It's not like I wanted this. Not like I chose it. I hear the pop that ended my career every time I close my eyes, and I swear it's acid eating away at my soul. Baseball is all I know. It's all I've ever known. The last six weeks have been hell. Between pre-surgery physical therapy and utter boredom, I'm losing it.
We make the rest of the drive home in silence. If you can call it silence. I don't know what the hell she's listening to, but I'm going to need some serious pain meds when I get to the house, and not because of my knee.
Dad is waiting on the porch when we pull into the driveway. His hair, once blond like mine, has gone completely gray in the last few years, but he's still as fit and lean as always. He steps from the swing and walks toward us as Addie puts the car in park with a jerk.
Note to self: do not let her drive me anywhere.
Ever.
She climbs out of the car, twirls her hands, and curtsies.
"I present, his highness," she says, then walks toward the house her eyes already glued to her phone.
Dad gets my crutches out of the backseat while I open my door and try to maneuver myself into a position where I can climb out. Addie's small SUV wasn't built for a man my size. I'm not massive, but I'm not small either. At six foot three and two hundred forty pounds, it might as well be a toy car. Which means I need to figure out my car situation because my ass sure isn't fitting in Mom's sedan with this damn brace on. And climbing in and out of Dad's massive truck on our drive from Baltimore fucking sucked.
"Does she ever get off that thing?" I ask when Dad hands me my crutches.
He raises an eyebrow at me. "I'll give you two guesses."
It takes far longer than necessary for Dad to free me from the clutches of the car, and by the time we get in the house, Addie's already shoveling a taco into her mouth.
"Made your favorite," Mom says from her place at the stove.
"Why does he get special food?" Addie asks through a mouthful.
"Adelaide." Mom frowns and shakes her head. Gray strands lace her short blonde hair, and they twinkle in the sun streaming through the window. She steps in front of me and reaches up, placing her hands on my cheeks like she used to do when I was a kid.
"How're you feeling?" she asks.
"Tired and sore," I tell her. I wish I could lie and say I'm fine, but she'd see right through me. She always has. "Thanks for the tacos, but I don't think my stomach can handle that right now. I'll eat them tomorrow though."
She releases me with a pat on the cheek and pulls containers out of the cabinet.
