Page 32 of The Best Parts of Him

“Sucks.”

“Yeah.”

Considering Miles had just divorced his wife of four years, Ryland’s problem was peanuts by comparison. So he pasted on a smile and said, “Can I borrow your new game for the Switch? I’ll die of boredom if I don’t have something to do for the next two weeks.”

“How do you expect to play with only one hand?”

“I don’t have to wear the sling twenty-four seven.”

“Sure.” Miles rose and scratched his furry chest. “I’ll bring it by when I pick you up tomorrow. Assuming you’re still up for lunch?”

“Of course,” Ryland said, though he was feeling sorry enough for himself that he wasn’t really in the mood to go out. But Miles was dealing with an empty apartment—literally. He’d just moved out of his home and into an unfurnished apartment. If he wanted to go out, Ryland would happily be his wingman. “Hey, Miles?” When he looked over, Ryland said, “How are you doing?”

Miles glanced away and rearranged the towel around his waist that didn’t actually need rearranging. “When you were a kid, did you ever try to get on a ride at the amusement park that you weren’t quite tall enough for? You’d sneak into the lineup anyway, and you’d get all the way to the front. But then someone would walk by with that height-measuring stick thing and send you on your way?”

“Sure,” Ryland said, recalling exactly that happening at La Ronde in Montreal on a family trip there shortly after his parents divorced.

“The disappointment of not being able to get on the ride would be like . . . I don’t know.” Miles rolled his shoulders. “Waking up for Saturday morning cartoons and getting a soap opera instead. That’s how I’m doing. But on a brighter note, my new mattress and headboard get delivered tomorrow morning.”

“Christ, Miles, you’re still in a sleeping bag?”

“Only for one more night.”

“I’ll never understand why you didn’t want to stay with me after you moved out.” Ryland rose and grabbed his phone from the shelf in his stall. “The bed in my guest room is super comfy.”

“Yes, I know. I helped you pick it out, remember? Who’s blowing up your phone?”

The screen had lit up when he’d picked it up, showing enough notifications to tempt him—for perhaps the first time ever—into setting it aside again.

“Um . . . everyone?” he replied, scrolling through notifications of texts and missed calls from his dad, his brother, his sister, Dabbs, his friends back home, and various NHL players from other teams he’d befriended over the years. Before he had a chance to read any of them, several more arrived in quick succession, this time in the family group chat.

Brie:

Are you dead? Blink once for yes.

Jason:

That’s not funny, Brie.

Brie:

It’s kind of funny. He played out the rest of the game, so obviously he’s NOT dead.

Brie:

Ry, stop being a pest and let us know you’re okay.

Jason:

Do you need anything, Ry?

Dad:

How about we give him a chance to decompress after the game and talk to his medical team, huh?

That was Dad. Always the voice of reason.

Ryland: