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It’s hard to ask for more.
I end my time with my toes squished in the sand, thankful for what my body can do, appreciative of how I’ve grown, and hopeful for what is to come. I bow to the ocean and the sun and thank the earth for a glorious art show.
Namaste.
Heading back, I slide into the front door and don’t have to call for Kyle. He sits sentry and waits. His gangly puppyhood turned on a dime when Tustin threatened. He’s still a goof, but he’s far more protective, far more intentional. I love it and I hate it. I miss the old Kyle, but this one is nice too.
“You ready?”
I leash him up, and we begin our morning together. I slide my phone into my pocket. I didn’t use to do this. I liked the freedom of not having the digital tether, but the media storm and the psycho means I put freedom aside for safety and security that might only be a phone call away.
Not that I’m happy about it. It’s just a necessity.
We walk out the door, onto the sidewalk and put in a mile or two before it gets too warm. He’s panting and his tongue is lolling by the time we get back. He’ll sleep well while I’m at work.
I hit the shower while he slops water all over my floors. I grab my phone to check the weather. I don’t know why this is a habit. It’s Florida the first week of August. It’ll be hot and muggy. How hot is the question. Instead, I’m shocked to see a message from Layton.
It’s been … months.
Layton:I don’t blame you. I’m sorry you thought that. I wish I’d seen your messages sooner, so you didn’t spend months wondering if I thought that.
He’s offering absolution, which is a relief, but it’s too little, too late.
Especially since it shows he read the message a few days ago and responded… in the middle of the night.
The whole thing is bizarre.
And annoying.
I won’t let it ruffle me today. Full-contact practice is in full swing. We have plans to adjust with medical staff and athletic training personnel. There’s work to do and assuaging Layton Ranger’s guilt cannot be a distraction.
TWENTY-NINE
ICE BATH FOR HIS BALLS
LAYTON
Iwake at God knows what time. I should probably find a way to sleep at night instead of most of the day and half the night. It’s strategic, really. Pop will eventually decide that grown man or not, I won’t sleep all day. It’s like being a teenager again.
In his house.
With zero control.
And he’s always watching.
We’re a couple of weeks in and no one’s ever quite gotten around to taking me home. I could grab a Lyft. Though I can’t imagine how stealth I’d be.
Pop added cameras last fall. Securing the perimeter has probably dwindled when the biggest threat to the family is me imploding.
But I can fake it.
I can be awake during the day, fake the conversations with my family, and go through the motions. That’s doable.
At some point, they’ll give up on trying to fix me and get on with their lives. I’m counting on it.
Having them believe I’m fine will speed up the process. It’s simply a matter of fake it until I make it or until they’re fooled.
I rise and shower. I’d trim my beard, but this needs to look like a progression. I dress and am leaving when I find a box at the door. It’s small and unopened, with a Florida return address label. No name but I know that address.
