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Dr. Silverberg’s smile widens. “Let me know if I ever need to step in for you. In the meantime, you definitely sent a clear message. The rookies are already quaking in their cleats.” He taps the jamb and sees himself out, closing the door with a click behind him.
I suck in a ragged breath and stifle a scream on the exhale. By the second one, tears are pouring down my face.
Regardless of whether he ghosted me, I know that man. His one true love is football. His only love is the game. And while he lost that love in April, today its corpse reared its ugly head.
Me:I’m sorry. I just heard. I… I wish I were more eloquent. I’m very sorry.
I hit send only to notice the thread above it.
Layton:Key lamp mode? Keyboard layout management? Kangaroos love mangoes?
Layton:Boy’s nursing home?Boats n Hoes? Bears need hamburgers?
Layton:If you’re in distress and need help, I need better clues.
He’s such a charmer, and I’m such a Debbie Downer.
Me:Keep deciphering the code. I’ll just stay here in some kidnapper’s trunk while you work it out.
The dots appear, and darn it if my heart doesn’t flutter a little. What is it about an enthralling man that makes a woman turn to mush? It works every freaking time.
THIRTY
VERY RIVENDELL
LAYTON
My retirement is official. Thehas beentitle is not presumed but actual.
I knew that at some point I’d need to have a life outside the game. But I thought I’d be old and tired and have knees that sounded like wet Rice Krispies at that point.
Well, two out of three ain’t bad.
There’s a knock on my bedroom door accompanied by a scratch. Gone are the days of sleeping undisturbed in my dark guest room with no interruptions and being safe from well-meaning family members.
“Yeah?” I holler, which is taken forenterand not simplywhat?
Pop pushes open the door. Sola and Luna run past him into the room. Luna takes up position at what I assume is her spot—the floor at the foot of the bed between me and the door. Sola rounds the footboard and leaps, landing on the mattress, paw at the ready, air-high-fiving me.
Pop rolls his eyes. “You always had the touch.” He pushes the door all the way open. “Come on then. Dinner’s on the table.”
“Uh, Pop, I’m not hungry.”
“Son, you were hungry every single day of your life until April.” He levels me with his gaze. “If you don’t want to eat, that’s fine. But the family’s here, and we’re having dinner.”
I want to protest. I want to be alone and wallow.
But more, I want to go home.
Home is the end-game.
I can fake it until I get home.
I scratch under Sola’s chin, looking into his tri-colored face, but speak to my dad in the doorway. “Be right there.”
I wasn’t treated like this much of a teenager when I lived here in high school.
I stare at my walker. I need it. It helps tremendously. How much of that is mental is still left to be determined. The question really becomes does it help me get home or not. I leave it, wrestling with anxiety of not having it, and am at the mouth of the door before I grab a half a tablet from my pocket and toss it under my tongue. It tastes bitter and metallic, with a hint of chalk and sweaty ass. But I’ll make it through dinner.
