Page 4 of Drop Three

Dad lives in Savannah, which is about four hours from Atlanta. We don’t see each other often, so we check in frequently.

“Things are good. Same old, same old. I just got home and ate some dinner. Planned on crashing for the night soon. Today was long.”

“I bet. That’s life on the road, I’d imagine. When’s your next home game? I’d love to come see you play, kid.”

Here comes another wave of loneliness. No matter how much he loves the game, sometimes more than I do, it seems, he’s my dad and one of the best guys I know. He’s slowly picking up the pieces after Mom left, and I know he’s doing his best.

“Monday night. You should come. I’d love to have you there, Dad.”

“I wish I could, son. I’m heading out of town Sunday night. Let me know when the next one is.”

“No worries. Season is almost over anyway. The series isn’t lookin’ good for us this year.”

“There’s always next year. You catchin’ Monday night?”

There it is.“I am. I’m starting.”

“I’ll try to stream it on my drive.”

Why not watch even if I wasn’t starting? Even though I always start, but still—watch it forme.

Maybe I’m expecting too much from him. But at the same time, my mom is gone doing God knows what, and he and my sister, Penelope, are all I’ve got.

I know I need to accept it for what it is and be thankful he wants to be there.

“Awesome. Let me know if you want to grab di?—”

“Son, I gotta run. Jerry is on the other line. Something about a truckload not showing up. I’ll call you later.”

He hangs up, cutting my invitation off completely.

So much for dinner and spending time together.

My dad is a truck driver for a local spirits distributor. He’s the leading load manager, overseeing nearly fifty truckloads. He’s on the road a lot, managing on the go, which is another roadblock in our strained relationship. I’m thankful he can watch me play on Monday night from afar, though. It seems no matter how old I get, I still love having him there—or at least knowing he’s watching me.

A wave of exhaustion hits me.I’m tired.

I feel my eyes rolling to the back of my head and my body fighting to give out.

I’ve been going nonstop, and it’s finally catching up with me. After washing my dishes, drying them, and putting them away, I head to my room upstairs and make my way toward the bathroom to shower. For sharing a space, we’re all fortunate enough to have our own bathrooms. It’s needed. Especially with the amount of fuck buddies Gus and Kingston bring around. Mack is pretty private, so I’m unsure what that looks like for him. Mine is nonexistent, leaving them nothing to worry about on my end.

I secure a towel from the bathroom closet and strip myself down. I can feel my body release the tension it’s been forcefully holding in. I feel like a tightly loaded cannon unable to fire. It’s paralyzing. It would be one thing if I knew how to fix it, but I don’t. My eyes find my tired frame in the reflection of the mirror.

Have I always looked so worn down? My eyes look jet black, and I have heavy bags underneath, as if sleep were a foreign concept.

It is.Lately, I have found myself passing out on the couch or waking up multiple times throughout the night when I’m in bed.

Solid and healthy sleep is, in fact, a foreign concept.

I’m not only feeling exhausted, but my body looks tired—if that’s even a thing.

At this point, all the hard work I’ve put into my physique means nothing if I don’t feel good. I’m close to six-six, all toned muscle and broad shoulders. Despite my tainted history, tattoos aren’t my thing. It’s such a contrast compared to my buddy Callaway, who is covered head to toe.

My palms touch the bathroom countertop as I lean forward to examine myself. I hope all the time I’ve invested in therapy helps. I need it to. I can’t keep living this one-dimensional life with no light in sight. It’s miserable and slowly tearing me apart, shred by shred.

I need the haunting of her screams to go away.

With a deep breath, I pull back and run a hand through my thick, dirty blond hair.

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