Page 50 of Lucky Laces
Especially after spending long minutes searching for the plastic bag of my belongings from the hospital and then through it until I find my phone.My charger takes longer to track down because my parents have mysteriously relocated it to the laundry room for some reason.I hobble back to the living room, plug in my dead cell, and wait for it to have enough juice so I can book an outrageously expensive flight for them to return home in the morning.Then book them an equally expensive Uber to the airport since I can’t drive them.
I do this partly because I know there’s nothing for them to do for me here (except make me fucking insane) and partly because I know they want to go back to their own lives.
My dad has his bowling league.
My mom needs to walk with her friends and then hit the garden center to add to the flower-filled back yard of the house I bought them in Southern California a few years ago.
And I need them the fuck out of my hair.
So, I make those arrangements, text them their boarding passes—and get no reply aside from a thumbs up.No surprise there.The false show of concern.The attention grabbing.Then, because they didn’t get the reaction they wanted and because they’re tired of pretending to be actual parents, they’re ready to go right back to their lives.
Which is the best case scenario for me.
I don’t have to put up with their shit.
They can keep on living as they like.
Sighing, I settle slowly onto the couch, trying to summon the energy to turn on the TV because I have the—not-so-odd, considering last night—urge to watch90 Day Fiancé.
But the remote is nearly out of reach and I’m fucking tired.
And I should probably just sleep.
Or if that won’t come because my sleep schedule is completely fucked and my leg hurts and the stitches are starting to itch in a way that I know is only going to get worse over the next couple of days then I should study some fucking drills.
Maybe the pain killers I downed on my trek through the house will slow the spinning in my brain enough that they’ll stick in my fucking head.
Unlikely considering that nothing has ever made that shit stop.
I still pick up the tablet, spend a good thirty minutes trying to focus.
Newsflash—it’s the same old shit.The words move, the arrows shift, the entire screen doesn’t make any bit of fucking sense.
Scowling, I toss the tablet aside and lean back on the couch.
And as I do so—Jesus fuck this next thought makes me pathetic and I fucking know it—but Diana didn’t come after me.
Not a surprise.
And yet…damn, that shit stings.
Grunting, I shove the feeling down.Like I said, not a surprise.She’sDiana.I’m me.Whatever we had was a product of the moment and now I need to move on, need to accept that we’re just…work colleagues or maybe friends at the most.
That’s it.
Still, as I reach for the remote I’m thinking that, leg aside, I’m mostly grateful for the hours trapped in that office.Not only did I get that time with Diana (which led tothattime with Diana), but also because we missed much of the craziness from the aftermath of the city trying to shake itself apart.By the time we left the hospital, many of the rescue efforts and fire suppression work and emergency services were winding down.
People were slowly getting back to normal, something that’s continued today.
Yes, it was a big quake, one that caused several casualties and damage throughout the city, including at the practice rink (according to the email operational services sent all of us in the Eagles organization), but most of the buildings in the Bay Area are built to withstand the big one.
So, it’s not as bad as it could be.
Which means that life goes on.
They’ve delayed the next couple of home games in order to conduct some inspections of the arena and are coordinating with several local rinks to find somewhere else for us to practice, considering the ceiling caved in throughout most of that practice facility.
But most of the focus is getting back to business as usual.
