“Ford,” she warns.
Corbin throws a towel at me. “Were you a suck-up in school too?Teacher, can I have more addition problems? Can I write an extra essay?”
I shoot him a look that translates toI’ll kill you in your sleep,mostly because I don’t want to acknowledge he’s right. Of course I did extra work. How else would I have gotten a scholarship?
“I swear I’ll need to get my daycare license soon,” Leah says, rolling her eyes. Scanning her tablet screen, she gives us the next set of drills.
I happily do them, no matter how loud my muscles scream.
When we’re done and Leah takes off, I could collapse. Instead, I make my way to the cardio machines. I gaze longingly at the row of StairMasters before claiming my favorite elliptical. Corbin grabs the one next to me, then glances down at his knees.
“Man, sometimes I wish I could still do the StairMaster too.”
Nostalgia tugs at my chest as well. “Yeah, and stair drills, the kind that make you feel like you’re going to die,” I say with fondness for those exercises we used to do—wereallowedto do.
He tosses his towel on the dashboard, nodding in solidarity. “The kind that makes your legs feel like a five-alarm fire.”
“Fucking miss those,” I say.
“So damn much.”
Corbin’s logged nearly a decade in the pros—not quite as many as I have, but close. After a while, your knees just aren’t the same. Even if you can skate like a Ferrari onespresso, you’ve got to be careful with the other exercises.
Corbin sighs, long and contemplative. “Aging is hard,” he says.
Three words. No bullshit. No ribbing.
Just a truth that gnaws at me.
“You’re telling me,” I say, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to slow down. I’m going to stay a step ahead. I pump my feet on the elliptical as I build up speed. “You push hard, you do the right things, eat healthy, stretch, practice yoga, get your sleep…but Father Time comes for us all.”
“And it comes for athletes fast and hard,” he says as he hits the start button. “But I take solace in one thing.”
“What’s that?”
He flashes me a dickhead smile, his dark eyes twinkling. “You’ll always be older than I am.”
I shoot him a deadpan stare. “And wiser. I’ll always be wiser.”
He laughs. “That’s probably true.”
But not always. I find myself texting Skylar later that day while I head to the team plane for the flight to Los Angeles. I want to let her know Mom said yes to the before-and-after for Skylar’s podcast.
Skylar replies in more exclamation points than I can count.
As I settle into my seat, I give her the code to the door and let her know she can shoot the before video anytime. I take the opportunity to touch base with her on other items, too, like the upcoming furniture delivery. As we taxi, I ask if we should fix the countertops. As we take off, I inquire about her opinion on lighting.
It’s important to stay on top of the details. To make sure my parents’ house is done right. That’s all this is.
Well, mostly.
Before we reach the clouds, I send one more text about plants. Just because it’d be nice to have some. Then I turn off the phone and ignore the sliver of hope that when I land, I’ll find a reply about plants.
11
THE GUY NEXT DOOR
SKYLAR
