Page 22

Chapter Twenty-Two

T hese pancakes are the best I’ve ever had. Jack’s never misses, and I’ve been craving these suckers since the day my doctors cleared me for solids. This trip to Jack’s does not disappoint.

Nothing about today disappoints. I’m grateful to the team that got me this far, but I’m so ready to go home. Jack’s is the only diversion I’m allowing. I can’t wait to hear my grandfather’s laugh echo down the hallway, to feel the sun beam in through the skylight in our living room while I rest on the couch and watch SportsCenter with my dad, and to walk with the help of Otis, the oldest horse in our barn and the literal best therapy a girl could ask for.

It's a damn near perfect day. The only thing off is Wyatt. Something’s wrong, and I wish he would quit pretending it’s just stress leading up to the game against Cal. It’s something more than that. I think it’s me. Not worrying about me, but balancing time with me—it’s wearing on him. And I wish he would let go of something. I’m okay.

“If you’re not going to finish those . . .” I poke my fork in the half pancake Wyatt has left on his plate. He grins and pushes the plate over to me.

“Go ahead.” His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

I lean to my left and kiss his cheek, then dump a little more syrup on the plate and dig in.

“If you’re carb loading, does that mean we get to walk extra far when we get to the house?” My mom smirks at me, and I wink and utter, “We’ll see.”

She has spent the last two weeks setting up our downstairs guest room with everything I’ll need to rehab at home. I’ll still make the trip to Tucson to work with Dr. Garmish at Tucson Strong. He’s been friends with my mom for years, and she was able to get his help, making sure I could stick to the aggressive schedule I made for myself. Even more, he believes I can accomplish everything on my list. He even added an item—a marathon. Five years from now, but still.

Me. A marathon.

I like it.

“You said to let you know when it was three. It’s just a few minutes before,” my mom says to Wyatt. He shakes out of his trance, which he’s been in a lot today, and meets her gaze with a quick smile.

“Yeah, I hate to miss the homecoming, but we leave for Cal tonight and I’ve been told I should always travel with the team.” He swivels his head and quirks a brow, bunching his lips in a cute but accusatory way. For a moment, he’s himself.

I touch my fingertip to his nose twice.

“Whoever told you that was right. Now, off you go. Get me one of those touchdown things,” I say as his lips hover an inch away from mine. He breathes out a short laugh, then kisses me.

“I’ll do my best,” he says, snagging his phone and wallet from the counter and moving toward the end of the counter where my dad is talking with Jack’s owner, Maggie.

“Something’s wrong,” I say to my mom, and she follows my gaze to where both men seem to be having a quick heart-to-heart.

My dad puts a hand on Wyatt’s shoulder, then pats it a few times before saying, “Good luck.”

My dad settles our bill with Maggie, who always tries to feed us for free, then carries my walker to me from behind the counter so I can steady myself and make the slow but steady trek out to the parking lot.

I’m still getting used to the exoskeleton brace, but I am moving faster with it. My balance is improving too. It’s just the strength part, and then of course, working my way to making these journeys on my own, without a guide. And eventually, without the walker.

Quit racing yourself.

My mom said those three words to me a few days ago, and they really stuck. I’ve been racing myself my whole life in one way or another. Life came along and made the race unfair, though, so now I need to pace things. Finish strong.

It feels as if it takes us an hour to get to my parents’ vehicles, though it’s probably ten minutes. I lean into my dad while my mom collapses the walker to put it in her SUV. I stop her before she lifts it from the ground.

“Actually, I’d like to ride with dad. I need to ask him a few boy questions, things only another boy would get.”

About Wyatt.

My mom nods with a soft smile, then shifts her body to boost my walker up and into the back of Dad’s truck.

“No goofing off,” she says, eyeing her husband first but including me next in that warning.

“No promises,” I say, an answer typical of my dad.

She shakes her head and laughs before getting into her driver’s seat.

“I love you two. See you at home.”

We wait for her to pull out so my dad can open the passenger door all the way, giving me plenty of options of where to hold on to. His hands go to my hips, but I shake my head.

“Let me try on my own first.”

“Okay. I’ll be right here,” he says, the reservation obvious in his tone. It’s not that he doesn’t think I can do this, it’s that it’s hard for him to see me fail. That’s something I’ve learned over the last two weeks. It’s where my father and I crossover the most—we’re competitive to a fault. With ourselves.

Quit racing yourself.

I take a deep breath and bring my right leg up, having to guide it part of the way to ensure my foot is flat on the running board. I search for the perfect holding spots, feeling good about my left hand clutching the grab bar, and settling for my other hand wrapping around the open window frame. My father stands at the door’s edge to keep it from closing on me, and I grunt my way into standing on the running board on my bad leg.

“Holy shit!” My eyes are wide with shock, and my body feels wobbly, but I lifted myself a foot off the ground.

“Atta girl!” My dad’s celebration is warranted this time. I’ll allow it.

Twisting my body proves to be a little trickier than I expect, so I call my dad in for a boost to get my hips moving in the right direction. Soon I’m in the seat, buckling myself in, and excited about getting out on my own when we get home.

My dad fires up the engine, his radio blasting that twenty-year-old rap he loves so much. I giggle and rap a few of the lyrics with him as he pulls out of the Jack’s lot. He turns the volume down when we hit the road, and after about a mile, he looks my way, ready to get serious.

“Is this going to be one of those talks where I should pull over? Or if we take the long route home, will that be enough?” He slows the truck a little, and I hike my shoulders up, not sure how this is going to go.

“I think you’re going to have to tell me. I know you know what’s going on with Wyatt. What’s wrong? What happened?” I know it’s football, and there’s no way my dad isn’t all up in that business.

My dad’s chest rises with his deep breath. He looks back to the road, then glances into his rearview mirror before looking back at me.

“Long route should do. But how about we make a little stop at the high school? It’s the JV game tonight. They’ll be warming up.” He tilts his head, urging me to say yes. He hasn’t been around much for the high school boys this season. Part of that is because of me, but mostly, he planned to spend this year supporting Wyatt.

“I’d like that,” I answer, my response pushing my dad’s grin up into his cheeks.

He flicks the turn signal on his truck and makes a wide left turn toward the towering light poles in the distance. It’s early yet, so by the time we pull into the Coolidge High lot, most of the guys are just getting dressed out and making the walk from the locker room to the field.

My dad helps me out of my seat so I can stand outside the truck with him while a few of the players jog over to shake his hand.

“Remember to watch for the long pass tonight, Davis,” my dad says to one of the smallest kids on the squad. He suddenly stands taller after getting my dad’s tip, then nods to him and says, “Yes, Coach,” before pushing his helmet onto his head and rushing out to the field.

“He’s small,” I mutter when Davis is out of earshot.

My dad sighs.

“Yeah, it’s a small few classes we’ve got. They’re fast, though. Looks like we might have to get sneaky to win our division this year.”

Or start illegally recruiting.

I don’t say that thought out loud. It’s a dirty topic but one that every single coach in this state does. The parents participate, shopping for playing time guarantees and recruitment looks before filling out waivers to get their kid into some school several miles away from their home. And the hard truth is my grandfather worked that system for my dad years ago.

“You want to get back in, or you want to sit on the tailgate a little while?” He leans his head to the right and I grin.

“You know that answer.” I hold out an arm so he can help support me as I wobble my way to the back of the truck.

There’s no easy way to hop onto the tailgate, so I let my dad lift me up. I attempt to swing my legs, and it works . . . sort of. I use my left one to push my right. For a minute, I’m a kid again. The only thing missing is a strawberry shake from MicNic’s.

“So.” I stare at him, wearing my worry, I’m sure. My stomach rattles with butterflies, but the nervous kind.

“Oh man, I kind of hoped he’d say something, but I get why he didn’t. Why he won’t.” My dad rubs his palms into his eyes, then drops them to his lap while my stomach takes a trip on an invisible roller coaster.

I already know before the words leave his mouth. But hearing them . . . they still make me cry.

“Bryce is getting the start.”

“Fuck.”

I blink away the tears and stare out at the field where kids half my dad’s size—half Wyatt’s size—count down jumping jacks in unison. It sometimes feels so pointless.

My dad leans into me for a second.

“I won’t tell your mom about the F bomb.” He chuckles, and I roll my eyes.

“I mean, since you taught me, that makes sense.”

He feigns offense.

“Fuck that,” he jokes.

I laugh a little harder, but it dies out quickly.

“I hate that he didn’t tell me,” I say, even though I understand it.

My dad doesn’t have a response, so he simply sits quietly with me for a while, listening to the distant whistles and cracking voices of boys becoming men out on the field.