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“Keep doing what you’re doing. I’ll head your way when Exton and Willa head to the hospital.”
We hang up a moment later, and I return the phone to Cynthia.
Pop never answered my question about Livy.
I leave my journal in my suite and go for a walk. No earbuds, no music. Just the Texas wind blowing in my ears, the sound of Purple Martins screaming, and the leaves dancing in the trees. I stride in the autumn sun and revel in how my cheeks tingle from the rays, the feel of the hair on my arms shifting in the breeze.
Things I couldn’t feel a month ago.
I wasn’t there for Colt’s birth. Hell, I was in Florida and got to know him over FaceTime. And this one—my father’s namesake—will come with me in the waiting room cheering my brother on as he becomes a dad himself.
I don’t sleep well. I was always this way before the first game of the season, like pregame jitters. It isn’t the nightmares that may never leave me. It’s the excitement I felt in the huddle before a great pass play. Or the vibration in the stadium during a play-off game.
I have a new nephew coming. A birth. A moment when life begins. Or begins again, for me at least.
A knock sounds on my door, and I spring from my chair… well, as much as any retired NFL footballer can spring, much less one with a career-ending injury.
“Mr. Ranger?” a young woman asks.
“Yes.”
“You have a phone call in the main office.”
I don’t say more but follow and take the proffered handset when it’s extended to me. “Hello?”
“It’s go time, Layton. I’m in the truck and should be to you in about thirty minutes. Do you need to do anything official to leave? Shit. Is the truck okay? Do you want me to ask Emberleigh for her car?”
“I’ll tell them now, and I’ll make it work. It’s not ideal, but nothing right now is, so I’ll figure it out.”
“Can’t wait to see you, son.”
“Same, Pop. I’m looking forward to it.”
I hand the phone back to the attendant and ask for Cynthia. She knew this was coming, and we planned for it. “Do you have your gum?”
I tap my pocket and remind myself of the two packs I have there. “Yes.”
“Is there anything that you feel like could trigger you?”
Of course.
“Yes.” I pause to honestly evaluate the situation. “And no.” It was never fear or frustration. It wasn’t people pleasing or performance. It was grief and loss. And being numb to both.
That hasn’t changed. But it has in some way.
I’ll always miss my mom. I’ve lost her twice. Once a year and a half ago, and again in the wreck. I’ve lost my career and my dream. Only once but for good.
And if I can survive both of those things, I can do anything. Including surviving the pain of them and living to see another day.
“My triggers are no different inside these walls, Cynthia. It’s not like my family puts them in my face. They live there. If I can handle it here, I can handle it there.”
“No one is above falling. Ask for help if you need it. Okay? But Layton?”
I nod.
“Know this… Lots of people never do the work you have while you’ve been here. They figure the chemical dependence is just that. They fail to see that it was never about Xanax or oxy or alcohol. It was always about what that offered them or saved them from. You’re leaps and bounds ahead of where most would be. But that doesn’t mean anything if you need help and won’t ask.”
“I’ll ask. I promise.”
