And isn’t that enough, really?
Who says every thirty-six-year-old guy should be married with two kids and a dog?
Not that there’s anything wrong with it. I know plenty of guys who are happily married. It’s just not for me.
So, no,I decide.I don’t work too much.
With that resolved, I turn my attention to other things.
Like getting out of this blasted cold and into the warmth of my condo, to start.
Speeding up, I hurry down the sidewalk, passing slower-moving people on either side. My breaths come in silvery clouds, and each inhale of the icy air brings a crisp bite to my lungs. I keep my head high as I walk, constantly scanning my surroundings, rather than keeping my face tucked down against the bitter chill of the wind.
It’s a holdover from my years in the Army, especially when I was Delta—always being on high alert, ready for any dangerous situation to unfold. Another holdover is my aversion to closed-in places. Not because I’m claustrophobic, but because it limits my options in the event of an attack.
That’s why I almost never take the subway, unless it’s absolutely necessary. The car service I usually use to get to and from work isn’t quite as bad, as long as we’re moving. But once we get stuck in traffic…
That’s why I’m walking the rest of the way home tonight. After ten minutes of bumper to bumper traffic, I couldn’t take it anymore.
The walk will be refreshing,I told myself. I can check emails while I walk. Call my mother. Maybe listen to one of those podcasts my buddy, Knight, keeps telling me about.
“They’re great for commutes,”he insisted.“Or working out. There’s one I like about medical mysteries. But you can find them on pretty much any topic.”
The idea of listening to someone talk about medical mysteries doesn’t sound very thrilling to me, but hey, whatever floats his boat, or whatever that saying is.
At the intersection of Broadway and 76th, I’m forced to stop while I wait for the light to turn. To distract myself from the crowd of people waiting alongside me, I scan the stores lining the sidewalk. It looks like the new gourmet bakery finally opened, and I have a fleeting thought of stopping in. Maybe picking up some cookies to bring to work tomorrow as a surprise for everyone.
As I study the contents set out in the window, I spot an arrangement of fancy cupcakes on display. One that’s obviously red velvet with cream cheese frosting catches my eye, and I can’t stop the flicker of thought that follows.
Those were her favorite.
Shit.
No.
It’s been far too long to remember things like that.
Turning my gaze away from the window, I refocus on the sidewalk ahead. As soon as the light turns, I rush across the street, eager to get away from the fragment of memory.
Just before I reach 79th Street, my watch vibrates, alerting me to an incoming text. It’s from Knight, my oldest and closest friend, who served with me first as a Ranger, and then on the same Delta team.
Just reminding you about the game this weekend. You’re coming over, right?
For a second, I can’t remember what he’s talking about. Then it hits me. The playoff game. The five of us—me, Knight, Houdini, Jester, and Wraith—are supposed to go over to Knight’s place to watch the game. Knight’s all excited because he just bought a new pizza oven and can’t wait to use it.
Me, I’d just order pizza. But again, to each their own.
I pull my phone from my pocket and send off a quick reply.
I’ll be there. What do you want me to bring?
A few seconds later, his response appears.
Just bring a couple six-packs. Houdini’s bringing wings. Jester said something about chips and dip. And Wraith said he has a surprise. Not sure if that’s good or bad.
I chuckle at the last part of his message. Wraith’s surprises can range from great, like rare whiskey and sold-out Yankees tickets, to strange, like chocolate-covered crickets and weird eggs from Japan.
Hurrying to make it through the next intersection before it changes, I wait until I get through it before I text Knight back.
