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I’m sure I will.
That is, until I see the dining room table. What is this—Thanksgiving?
“Hey,” a multitude of people at the table say. Some of their smiles are pity. Others are genuine. The only one who rises is Elias, Brighton’s fiancé, who walks to me and shakes my hand, clapping his other hand above my elbow.
“Good to see you, Layton. Sorry it’s under these circumstances. Bright says you’re coming over for dinner soon.”
I look at my sister. “Oh, does she?”
“Yep,” she pipes in from her place at the other side, as she sets down her glass.
“I’m looking forward to it,” I offer Elias. “I owe Looney a lifetime of dog treats.” I scratch the blond forehead at my right hip, just as Sola twirls in a circle, sits, and barks.
I stare at him. “What was that? Was it the wordtreat?” Once again, Sola makes a loop, sits, and barks. “Well, that’s impressive.”
I navigate to the table and clench my jaw as I sit, doing everything I can not to grunt or whimper as I fall into the chair. I fail, but I don’t shame myself either.
Plates are passed, and I take a little of everything. I’m not hungry, but I don’t want the stares or the comments, so I’ll force this down andumandahat the right points.
My brothers watch me. Exton is no doubt reading the situation. Braxton is… well, Braxton—the oldest, the business man, the rancher.
Emberleigh helps Colt who sits between her and Pop. Pop watches the table, helping with his grandson while listening to the chatter. It was Exton’s wedding the last time we were all together.
But it was Christmas the last time we were all together like this. Colt’s grown so much in that nearly nine-month time span. Sola isn’t a pup any longer. And Pop looks far more tired than he did then.
“So,” I begin, drawing out the word quietly. “What’s the occasion?”
They all turn to me, eyes fixated on my face.
After a long pause that’s too long, I set down my fork. “What’s the deal? We haven’t done this since Exton and Willa’s wedding or Christmas before that. What are we celebrating?”
It’s Pop who answers. “Son, we’ve been together through all of each other’s highs and lows… as much as we’ve been able, anyway. Today isn’t a high, and we’re not celebrating anything. We just wanted to be with you.”
“So this is a Layton lost his job party? I love”—I draw out the word in case they miss the sarcasm—“when people pity me.”
“Stop.” Pop slams his hand on the table, scaring Colt, causing him to jump and cry. Sola whimpers and heads toward my nephew, pushing his nose into the boy’s seat.
“Why? It’s my life. What if I don’t want to celebrate being washed up before my thirtieth birthday? What if I don’t want a ticker tape parade for losing the only thing I cared about?”
“What if you’re not the only one this affects?” he tosses right back. “What if we’re trying to support you? What if we’re just so fucking grateful you’re still in the room that we tolerate your piss-poor attitude and self-destructive behavior, because then at least—” His voice cracks. “At least you’re alive, and we get another day?”
Colt’s cries are the only sound in the hushed room.
He stands and tosses his napkin down, rubbing his knuckles across the back of his eyes. “I miss Emilia every day. Every damn day. But these past few months? They’ve been some of the worst. She’d know what to do. She’d know how to reach you. She’d know how to get it through your thick skull that you were always more than your skill on the field, always better than what you give yourself credit for. She’d shake you until your teeth rattled to remind you of who you are. God, I miss her. She could save you, even if you didn’t want saving. And I’m… lost.”
Head down, still scrubbing his eyes, he leaves the table, boots thumping as he pulls open the front door and stomps down the porch stairs.
Braxton bows up in his chair. His voice is measured and quiet. “You have no idea what it’s been like since your accident. Pop worries constantly. Security cameras pick him up at the barn in the middle of the night. I don’t think he sleeps.”
“I didn’t ask for that. I didn’t ask for this.” I gesture to my body.
“No, you didn’t, but you sure aren’t doing anything to fix it either.”
“Fuck you, Brax.”
“Feck cue,” Colt repeats, smashing a baby fork into macaroni and cheese. “Feck cue.”
If looks could kill, the one Braxton turns on me now would incinerate me to ash. He stands, his chair scraping across the wood.
