I eye him suspiciously but do as I’m told.
“To landing the starting running back position on our dream team,” he says.
I freeze, letting the words echo in my brain. “No way,” I whisper.
“Way,” he replies with a wink.
“Dude! Holy shit, Darren!” I say loudly before lowering my voice, so I don’t draw too much attention to us. “When?”
“Just found out this afternoon. I signed the papers an hour ago, I’m waiting out rush hour, and then I’m bringing Courtney her favorite wine, and we can celebrate,” he says.
I slap him on the back. “I’m fucking proud of you, brother,” I say as I look him in the eye and raise my glass to his. “Congrats.”
“Thanks, Hutch. I wanted you to hear it first. I know, more than anyone, you’d get it,” he says as we both throw back our shots. He’s right. I do get it. I met Darren in college. We played together at Clearview Falls University, and then we got drafted to different teams. But that only lasted two years. Then Darren got traded to my team, and we played ball together for three amazing years. He met his wife. I was with my ex, Ginger, and life was perfect. For just a brief moment, I had everything. We were both working toward playing for our dream team, the one we had tried to manifest from our first day in college training. The one Darren will get to play for now. His life is complete. He has the perfect wife, the perfect kids, and now the perfect job. I’m so happy for him, but deep down, I feel that jealousy start to brew. I hold up my finger to the bartender and order a beer. I’m going to need something more than a shot to get through this evening.
“Tell me all about it,” I say to Darren, hoping his storytelling abilities will distract me from my thoughts. He does, and for the next hour, he talks about the neighborhood he wants to move to and the vacation house he plans to buy. Each revelation feels like another knife to the chest.
He pauses after a while, and I can tell he wants to say something.
“What?” I ask.
He blows out a breath. “I saw Ginger the other day,” he admits, his gaze holds mine as if he’s testing how I react.
I shrug. “Yeah?”
“She was with Keith Kelly,” he says. Keith is another former teammate of ours. We weren’t particularly close to him. He’s not a bad guy or anything, just different than Darren and me. He enjoys the limelight way more than we do. I imagine that’s why Ginger is with him.
My memories of Ginger play on the continuing loop I have them on in my mind. I thought I had loved her. We were together six years from college until several months after my accident, when I found out she had cheated on me with a former teammate from our college team. We had recently reconnected at a reunion, and I guess Ginger reconnected on another level because I came home early one day and found them in our bed. I came home with the engagement ring I planned on using to propose to her the following week.
After that, I decided no more women. She tried to explain that she had sought comfort in the arms of Jay Parren because she needed someone to talk to, and one thing led to another. She tried to tell me she never meant to hurt me. And looking back, maybe there is some truth in that, but because of her, I’m not sure I can ever trust a woman again. I’m not sure I want to. And now, years have passed, and I’d like to say I’m over it, but I suppose you’re really never over something like that.
“Fuck ’em,” Darren mutters as he reaches for a glass of beer the bartender has brought him.
I clink my glass with his and take a sip.
“So, what’s new with you?” he asks as he sets his glass down and studies me.
I shrug. “Same old. Just working,” I answer, deciding not to get into my pastime of solving the neighborhood flower mystery. Darren wouldn’t get it. Hell, sometimes I don’t get it.
“You should join us at the beach house sometime. We’re taking the kids down there for a long weekend next month,” he offers.
“Maybe. I got some big client meetings coming up, but we’ll see,” I say, not wanting to commit to anything. That’s been my problem lately. The only living creature I confide in has become Cliff, a four-legged trash panda who sits in the tree opposite me while I watch for the secret person putting flowers on the park bench. Maybe it’s because Cliff doesn’t judge me, or maybe it’s because I find another species more trustworthy. The truth of the matter is, I’m lonely. I have friends, really good friends, but sometimes, I feel like no one actually sees the real me.
“Well, think about it. I’ll send you the details, and we’ll be back for a spring break week in April, too. Or hell, just go on your own and bring some friends,” he offers.
“Thanks, Farley. I’ll think about it,” I reply, attempting to placate him. I’d have to be dragged out of town right now for a very good reason at this point. And right now, my mental health doesn’t seem to be a good enough reason. I haven’t completely shaken the funk I’ve been in for the last five years. I’ve changed damn near everything about my life. I rebuilt it from the ground up, but most days, it’s still hard. I can’t shake the disappointment of having damn near everything and then watching it all disappear in a matter of months. My health, my job, my girlfriend, my friends, my home, and even my sanity. I’m better now, so much better, but the cracks created by those events are still evident, and sometimes I wonder if the super glue I used to fuse myself back together can hold. Forget trusting women, I don’t even know if I can trust myself.
“It’s got six bedrooms and a separate guesthouse with two more. We have a car there and a golf cart. You should grab some of your friends and go for a week. It’s only an hour from San Juan. I’m serious. I never see you taking vacations. At least consider it, OK?” he urges. I think about how fun it would be to take my neighbors to Puerto Rico for a week.
“I’ll think about it,” I say as I reach for my beer to down the rest. I know not everyone could go, but maybe some of them would. The more I consider it, the more I’m not opposed to it. Maybe a week away would be good?
CHAPTER THREE
Jocelyn
“Val!” I call out as I grab my coat. I’m late for work. Somehow, I managed to go to class this morning, pick up cereal at the grocery store, and come home to eat all before eleven thirty. As much as I’m going to miss grad school, I’m ready to be done with it. I just wish I knew what I was doing next and what I was writing my paper about.
“I’m leaving!” I yell when she doesn’t answer.
