By hour seventy-two, I finally stagger to Colten’s mom’s house, and I’m pretty sure I’ve lost at least three years of my life and most of my dignity.
Also, possibly my sense of smell.
I stand on the sidewalk for a second in the afternoon light, staring at the house like it might disappear if I blink too long.
It’s…different from what I remember.
Same split-level shape, but softer somehow. The siding’s a light blue instead of that dull gray it used to be, and there are actual flowers in the little front garden instead of whatever weeds Colten and I used to kick a ball into when I visited before.
There’s a wind chime on the porch, quietly clinking in the breeze. The windows are open, the light inside gently spilling out, like the house is exhaling.
It feels peaceful in a way it didn’t before the divorce.
I drag myself up the steps, legs heavy. It feels like gravity decided to double just for me. My backpack thumps painfully against my spine with every step, even though it only has my cleats and a training outfit for the combine.
Seventy-two hours of buses and wrong turns and asking strangers for directions when I don’t even remember the exact neighborhood.
I’m still not exactly sure how I got here, but I’m not about to question a miracle.
I lift my hand to knock, my muscles painfully protesting, before rapping against the wood.
There’s a shuffle inside before the door creaks open.
Ms. Hazel, Colten’s mom with her maiden name back, stands there, blinking at me in surprise.
“Patrick?”
I try to smile. It probably looks more like I’m dying. I feel like I’m dying.
“Hi, Ms. Hazel. Is Colten home?” I rasp.
Her expression shifts immediately—from surprise to warmth to concern in about half a second. “Oh my god, honey, yes, but please, come in.”
She steps aside, ushering me in like I’m about to pass out. Which, honestly, I might.
I probably should’ve finished that burger. That Temo tiramisu protein powder didn’t sit well in my stomach.
I step inside and notice that they’ve changed the pictures on the walls. It used to be awkward pictures of Colten and his parents, but now it’s just Colten with his mom.
There’s even more of Colten than before.
There’s Colten at every age—Colten missing his front teeth, Colten holding a soccer ball bigger than his head, Colten in his academy uniform, hair shorter, smile smaller. Where were these pictures before? I would’ve remembered them.
I want to spend at least an hour analyzing them all, maybe getting my own copies for later. For blackmail, of course.
“Patrick,” Ms. Hazel says gently, touching my arm. “Sweetheart, are you okay? You look—”
She hesitates, like she’s trying to find a polite word for ‘like you crawled out of a ditch.’
“Great?” I offer.
She gives me a tight, concerned smile. “Do you need to sit down?”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly, but then sway slightly. Her smile gets tighter. “I’ve just been traveling.”
“For how long?”
“Uh.” I do the math, or try to. Numbers feel fake right now. “Three days?”
