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This neighborhood hardly even feels like part of the city. The houses, built sometime in the middle of the last century, are widely spaced apart and there’s no shortage of winding nature trails. Tess, always eager to share her realtor knowledge, once told me that there were plans in the works to raze some of these old neighborhoods and throw up rows of high rise condos but the plan was scrapped when some historical society won the fight to turn a handful of streets into landmarks. The condo project was supposed to go to Yellow Brick Properties. I bet Aunt Matilda was pissed. I’m never bothered when Matilda is pissed.
Funny to think how the original plan was to turn me into a corporate suit. I was meant to be stuffed into an office somewhere in the honeycomb of a downtown high rise owned by my mother’s family. Along with Micah and Gage, I would have been sitting through daily executive meetings and staring at dumb shit like balance sheets.
Wasn’t meant to be. The three of us went in very different directions.
Micah was forced to quit being an MMA fighter after the loss of his hand but now he’s happy with his family man life and putting his artistic talents to use.
Gage, meanwhile, took apart every brick of his vicious father’s criminal kingdom. These days he and Dani are always busy managing a web of humanitarian projects and trying to make the world a better place.
As for me, there’s no point in guessing what route my life might have taken if I hadn’t fallen out of a tree and lost a chunk of useful IQ points. Before the fall, school came so easily to me. There was even talk that I ought to skip a grade or two. Maybe I would have gone to an Ivy League school and become a physicist or something. In the early days after the accident, when I was still coming to grips with the new normal, the chief neurologist overseeing my case offered some gentle advice. He said I shouldn’t think in terms of loss. Inside of each person’s head there are millions of tiny connections. Some of my connections were damaged, that’s all. Doesn’t stop me from being a beast on the field. And the fact that my brain can store every football formation ever invented proves that I’ve kept what counts.
I’m living the dream. I know that. No one outside of my inner circle has a clue that I walk beside the grim devils of my own history.
Then again, don’t we all?
There’s a sudden twinge of odd pressure just below my right hip. It’s not pain, not exactly. And sometimes I’m not even sure if the sensation is real or in my head. The bullet was removed cleanly. The bullet my mother shot at me. Months of physical therapy followed, but now it doesn’t look like I’ve missed a single step. On the contrary, I’m faster on the field than ever.
Riding on the dirt along the canals is the easiest way to rack up miles. On a mild morning like this, I can go twenty miles round trip without even breathing hard.
The mundane exercise gives my mind a lot of opportunities to wander. It’s wandered back to Haven.
And Lita.
Lita Marchenko and I ran in the same circles and got along just fine. I knew her better than I knew her sister, but that wasn’t a high bar because I didn’t really know Haven at all. She was just a cute girl who ignored me whenever I smiled at her.
But Lita was different. Quirky and fast talking, forever ready to laugh. It’s always been tough to picture her silenced and immobile. I’ve never visited her at the nursing home. Not because I don’t care but because I always figured Haven wouldn’t be too appreciative if I showed up.
Today isn’t the first time I’ve wondered just how close I came to sharing Lita’s fate. Her injury was different from mine; a brain aneurysm as opposed to a severe concussion.
Still…I was fortunate.
And Lita wasn’t.
I remember nothing of the hours I was unconscious. It was like a switch had been flipped off and it felt like no time at all passed when it was flipped back on.
No one can know if it’s the same for Lita, if she’s simply suspended in a dark room, waiting for the lights to come back on.
I’ve been riding around on autopilot and it’s a surprise to realize I’m back within a half mile of my own street. Slowing down, I coast to my driveway. Just as I wheel into the garage, my phone buzzes.
The caller’s name flashes as ‘Vee’. Her nickname. Elvira Gonsalvo. Pro soccer player. Cool as shit. Screams out her own jersey number every time she comes.
“Hello there, sexy,” her throaty voice purrs into the phone. “It’s been too long.”
With two fingers I heave the bike into its rack beside Tess’s silver minivan. “Yeah, haven’t seen you since we met up while I was playing in Seattle last fall.”
She groans. “I remember it well. A productive six hours.”
“You here in town?”
“Only until tomorrow. And I’m bored. This place doesn’t have much in the way of excitement. You want some company tonight?”
When I hesitate for longer than a couple of seconds, she gasps. “Holy shit, you’ve got a girlfriend.”
“Hell no.”
She laughs and starts taunting in a singsong. “Woohoo, will wonders never cease. Spit out her name, Wiseman.”
“Haven.” I’ve said it without even thinking. And now that it’s out there I don’t want to take it back. “But she’s not my girlfriend. She’s just, ah…”
