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But I’m not grieving it either.
“You know when you want to try, I’ll help.”
“I know. And thank you. Not yet, but you’ll be the first to know.”
“I’m counting on it. Now tell me who do I need in my fantasy football lineup? And who’s overrated?”
We chat for a few more minutes about her family, my career, and the NFL. She’s a rabid fan and sent flowers when she heard I got the job. She wasn’t shy about asking me to get her on the field when we played Atlanta, either, which made me laugh. I obliged. It’s how Dr. Morgan and Dr. Jeffrey came to be Livy and Elouise. I worked. She cheered and jeered, and we became friends.
A quick sixty-five-minute flight home and I can snuggle with Kyle.
TWENTY-ONE
VIP LIST
LAYTON
Pop stands on the threshold of my door with an old duffel bag at his booted feet. “I’m going to ask one more time. Are you sure you won’t come home?”
“Love you, Pop, but I’m good. You know I can’t right now.”
He looks behind me into my apartment. I can tell he wants to say more, but he holds his tongue.
“I love you, Layton. I’m proud of the man you are. When you need me, I’ll be here.”
I hug him, his head below my chin with our height difference in stark relief. He holds me for a beat longer than I expect.
“When you’re ready, home is too.”
“I know.”
A buzz in my pocket alerts me of a notification. “Your car is here. I’m sorry I can’t—” I cut off that thought. I can’t drive him. Not physically and my truck is who-knows-where.
“Love you, son.” Pop’s face is earnest as he looks to the bank of elevators.
“Love you, too. Thank you for being here. I… It means a lot.”
“No place else I would’ve been.”
The elevator dings, and he steps into it, lifting a hand when he turns to face the doors. I do the same.
When the doors slide closed, the invisible string holding me up snaps, and I lean partly on the doorjamb and partly onto the walker, releasing what’s left of my farce.
The metallic click of the walker as it jostles below me sets the rhythm as I walk back to my room.
By the time I lie back in bed, I’m exhausted from exertion. That’s laughable. I’m a… well, Iwasa professional athlete. My body felt exhaustion after hours in the gym or hours on the field. Exertion was faster bursts in sprints or multiple back-to-back one-hundred-yard runs. Holding myself up and walking from the door to my guest room do not qualify.
I hold the still new-to-me phone, hating that it’s not set up right, but not caring enough to take the time to do it. Red dots notify me I have unanswered calls, unread emails, and more texts than I care to read.
Other apps are lit up with the red circle, but I can’t bring myself to care.
I open my texts, scroll to George, and see a handful of messages from the past couple of weeks.
George:I’ve been working on getting to your truck. Police need more documentation from me. I’ll keep you posted.
George:The good news is a stalker couldn’t get near your truck. Bad news is the police impound lot is Fort Knox. I should have everything they need by tomorrow.
George:I’m not going to lie. I threw up when I saw your truck. Vomited right there on the tire. I knew, but no way could I have imagined. Glad you’re alive, my friend.
