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Maybe I did this before I turned three. But not since.
I keep my eyes straight ahead and my mind fixed on my pocket. Into the house, through the living room, and down the hall. I can do it. I can climb into bed, take a whole tablet, and sleep.
I can avoid the looks, elude the whispers, and enter the darkness where I’m not so broken that two men help me walk, a woman carries my crutch, and my sister fights her sobs.
Twenty more steps.
And I can escape.
TWENTY-FIVE
ROCK BOTTOM
LAYTON
The drawback with escaping problems is they’re always waiting, but instead of patiently standing aside, problems always wait for the most inopportune time with the worst possible outcome. There wasn’t a day I skipped in the gym when it wasn’t worse when I came back. Not a diet that I put off that was easier after waiting.
And now, after a full day’s sleep, after being awake and jostled for far too long in the car, I find myself in an ambush.
All I want is water. And since I didn’t plan ahead last night… or this morning—time is so jumbled—I walk toward the kitchen and directly into hell.
“Morning, sunshine,” Braxton offers from his spot in one of Pop’s recliners. My oldest brother doesn’t look like he has a care in the world. Colt is on his lap. At a year and a half, he’s Braxton’s spitting image. “Laaaaay,” he screams and climbs my brother, scrambling for the top of the chair, and throws his arms up and down.
I high-five him as I pass, not trusting myself to hold him. My psyche cracks a little more along the fault that’s growing inside me. The list of what I can’t do is mounting, and each one slices me more raw than the one before.
Eventually, I’ll just be nerves and atrophied muscles with a dark mind and withered heart. I may have survived that crash, but my old self died when the Jaws of Life were needed to pull me from the mangled wreckage.
And, right now, I don’t have the comfort of my home, my bed, my dark room, or my oxy.
I move into Pop’s kitchen and reach for a glass and fill it with water. The sound of the door opening and closing and boots shuffling along the wood floors is unmistakable.
I turn back to avoid being trapped in the kitchen with no escape and wander into the living room, making a beeline for the guest room at a snail’s pace.
“Layton.” Pop’s voice is authoritative and lacks his typical warmth. “Come have a seat, son.”
“I need to lie down, Pop. Yesterday’s trip did a number on me.” I move to push past him, but a firm hand lands on my chest.
I look down at it, fighting the sudden burst of fury that wants to bubble up. When my eyes meet his, I know I’ve lost. Pop’s kindness and pain is there, mixed with determination and pride. No matter the storm raging inside me, I can’t see past his resolve. But that mixed with the worry I see painted on his face is my undoing. I drop my gaze from his to the floor, nodding once in defeat and moving toward the furniture.
There’s no good place to sit. No place less painful. So I stand and shift the weight as much as I can to my right side, holding myself in a position that hurts the least, and wait. I could count the clock’s ticks with the silence and the inhales and exhales throughout the room. The only sounds are Sola scratching behind his ear and Colt babbling and slapping things.
I do not look up into the faces of Exton or Willa or Brighton or Pop. I studiously avoid Braxton with my nephew and focus on Sola, who demands the least of me.
When no one says anything, I turn the walker to walk away. Braxton rises from his chair to stop me. “I’ve never done an intervention. I don’t know how. This”—he motions around the room—“is not my bag. They say I’m supposed to tell you how you’re hurting me, so I can get your attention. I’m not going to do that.” He hugs me, eventually pulling back to put both hands on my shoulders, and looks me in the eye. He’s only an inch taller than me, but he’s solid, and the strongest one in the room without a doubt.
“You’re not hurting me. You’re hurting yourself. You are the most disciplined person I’ve ever met. You fought tooth and nail for nearly two decades for your dreams. It doesn’t hurt me that you lost it. It worries me that you did. I want everything for you. I want every dream you have to come true and stay true. I want it for you as much as I want it for Colt.” He looks around for his son, only to find him lifting Luna’s ears and leaning to kiss her nose.
“You’re not hurting me, Layton. I won’t accuse you of that. But watching you hurt yourself is brutal. Watching you give up is foreign to me. My brother, the fighter? That man never surrendered.”
“Did you justGoonies never say dieme in a speech?”
“Yeah. But it’s true. Layton Ranger is too good a man to letthisget him down.”
I clench my jaw. Braxton isn’t effusive with me. He dotes on Colt and would fight the world for his fiancée, Emberleigh. But he’s rarely emotional like this with me. He’s a marshmallow for them, but as my brother, he’s never been the protector. Until now.
“Can I go next?” Willa’s strong voice implores the room.
Pop says nothing but motions that she has the floor.
