By now, I’ve learned to recognize when he’s trying to remind me I’m not the same as him.
The screen lights up again, and I’m three seconds away from throwing my phone out the window until I realize it’s a call.
Josh, my former stepdad turned adoptive dad, so in other words—my dad. A guy opposite from Mitch in every way.
Mitch is my dad’s nephew, but there’s no comparison. There are times I still feel a pang of guilt Josh had a falling out with his brother over me, enough that Mitch and I lost touch for a long time until college. That reunion wasn’t anything I want to experience again, and up until a few years ago Mitch and I had zero contact.
But when he congratulated me on getting drafted to the Kings, at first, I gave it a chance. I worked it out in my head that for Dad’s sake, I ought to try.
I should’ve realized he only reached out since being in the MLB meant money. Ever since, Mitch has done nothing but pester me to help him out, invest with him, and pretend we have any sort of relationship.
Mitch is self-centered and only speaks to me when he wants something. On the opposite side, my dad is probably calling to remind me about our run this weekend.
He always does, even though it’s a recurring appointment we have in the off-season. My mom told me it’s because he gets excited to be back together after months of me being on the road.
I’m pretty strict on not using the phone while driving, so I let it go to voicemail, right next to the two messages I’ve never listened to. The ones I can’t delete, but can’t find it in me to open the two different calls. One from seven years ago, another from four.
With every new phone, the messages transfer and continue to stare at me, gnaw at me. I continue to keep them unheard, not man enough to listen or delete.
I flip on my music, desperate to tear my focused thoughts away from that tangent. I don’t want to think of the voice behind the messages tonight. I want to get this over with and go home.
Dark emptiness makes up most of my drive. Sounds dreary, but it’s not. I love the vastness of the Nevada desert with occasional hills or sandstone formations appearing only when my headlights gleam over the surface.
Griffin and Wren live on the hills above the sparkle of casino lights. Parker and Skye live up the hill a block, right next to Alexis and her rock star husband. Truth be told, his entire band, Perfectly Broken, lives up there. It’s gated and too close to neighbors, in my opinion. Still, when we have monthly barbecues it makes it easy to house jump.
Outside the gate, I type in the code, tapping my fingers to the instrumental beat ofPhantom of the Opera. Not what people expect from an athlete, perhaps, but musicals were on a constant replay in my house growing up, thanks to a mother who taught drama at my high school and needed something to soothe her kid whenever he got overwhelmed.
I’m almost tranquil enough to say I’m in a good mood and glad I stepped out of my bachelor cave tonight.
Until a flash of something bright crosses into my line of vision, then disappears into the open garage. I slam on my breaks. Was it an animal? Licorice? If it was the cat, I think I’ll be tempted to run it over.
Until I notice . . . why is the garage open? I curse under my breath, assuming Griffin left it open, because knowing him, he’d be so lost in his new wife he would forget to close off his house.
I am about to call the dimwit when a lamp flicks on in the front window. My mind reels to the open garage, boxes in the trunk of an unfamiliar, teal Civic. A Tweety Bird bumper sticker makes me think of crystal blue eyes and a laugh people ought to write songs about.
The same face, the same heated regret and desire, clamps around my chest at least once a day. One might think a decade would make the heart grow forgetful. No, it makes it grow scabrous and black and scorched from all the built-up longing.
I force my gaze off the bumper sticker. No time for that. There is someone here who doesn’t belong.
I text Griffin, asking him if he recognizes the description of the car. After two minutes, I have no reply. Why would he, though? He’s on the last night of his honeymoon and I really don’t want to think of what he’s doing.
Maybe I should’ve taken some of the cleansing breaths Skye is always pushing during training. Maybe I should have double checked with the Marks or Fox families to make sure Griffin’s cousins or Wren’s brothers hadn’t stopped by. But no, my head went to thieves and murder and poison in their drinking water.
I whip out my cell phone and dial the police. Funny, but I never realized how one phone call could shatter the comfortable control I’ve had over my life.
But it does.
Ava
Failure doesn’t exist.Only lessons.
My mom likes to say that when something she tries to accomplish doesn’t quite go according to plan. I’ve clung to the feel-good mantra for years, but tonight it’s cracking into splintered pieces.
Failure while decorating a surprise love nest for newlyweds seems less like a lesson and more like a disaster of apocalyptic proportions.
A smile is pinned on my face. One so sickly sweet it’s oozing high blood sugar and my pancreas is having palpitations. But here’s the thing, if I let the smile drop, the barely managed wall of anxiety is going to spill out like a mushroom cloud in the center of the kitchen.
“Ava,” Sasha whispers. She’s my best friend. We met in a group home when her mom was hired as one of the counselors and she had to tagalong one day after coming down with strep throat.
