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I whip my head to the driver’s seat. “I don’t remember that.”
“I figured. That’s why I’m reminding you. Staff wouldn’t say much to him, but he was there. You have a brother in that man.”
I stare straight ahead. A brother-in-arms, sure… But what if I’m no longer on the field of battle?
We drive the rest of the way in silence. My brain is a silent movie reel of my life. Personal highs. Devastating lows. The joy in my career successes as well as the fumbles, blunders, and errors. Locker room celebrations and flying cars. I cringe. There’s only been one flying car.
* * *
My home is a train wreck. The modern white living room with its two-story glass windows and a view of downtown now sports a sturdy, green, old-man recliner.
The downstairs bedroom, always reserved for guests, has had all the furniture removed. Now it holds a lone piece of furniture—a king-size bed with no footboard. It’s set off to one side, leaving a wide aisle.
A hand drops onto my uninjured shoulder. “I’m going upstairs to grab a proper shower. I’ll be back.”
I never turn around but feel the clap of his hand and know when I’m alone. The quiet receding of his boots gives me privacy I’ve not had in weeks.
I’m embarrassed to say it took me this long to get it. Cold dread pours across my skin.
My bedroom is upstairs. Up-fucking-stairs. Stairs I can’t climb.Thisis my bedroom. This area is where I’ll be living. Not the wide room with black-out curtains and a plush mattress. Not the shower with multiple jets and a steam door. Not the luxury penthouse pad of an NFL player.
This interior room with no windows. The one with a bed that if I look, I’ll probably discover is one that lifts up and down.
And that wide aisle is for my walker.
I can’t get to my workout room either. It’s on the second floor.
I back up and use every last bit of energy to make my way to that ridiculous recliner and fall into it in the least painful way possible. I pluck a pill under my tongue, hating the bitter chalk it leaves as it dissolves, but knowing it’ll hit faster here.
Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I feel it. A snap. This broken body, my angry mind, my shattered dreams are more permanent and more real than anything I’ve ever known. Everything about me is a has-been.
Fuck my life.
* * *
Livy
“But it’s not, Mother. I’m not prostituting myself to the highest bidder as a model. That’s—”
She cuts me off.
“Olivia Morgan. You are half-naked on a billboard. Selling your body in exchange for payment is the definition of prostitution. I’m assuming you’re being paid for such an embarrassment.”
“Embarrassment?”
She launches in again, paying no heed to overtalking me, berating me, and literally calling me a whore.
She won’t listen to anything I say.
More honestly, if I truly consider it, she doesn’t listen to me. She hasn’t for as long as I can remember.
Ever really.
Not preferences in music or fashion. Not my desires when it came to choosing coursework in school or extracurriculars.
My father mumbles in the background, but my epiphany makes concentrating on his words impossible.
My sister wants nothing to do with me. She’s more worried about how my existence impacts her reputation. I’m an inconvenience and an anchor on an otherwise smooth-sailing life.
