Page 29 of The Last Guy On Earth
“Since you asked,” I’d said, and then I’d told him how my drug-addicted sister had better access to drugs inside prison than outside it. I’d explained how I’d had to stop putting money in her commissary account once I figured out what she was trading it for.
Shelby is one hundred percent responsible for all four of the gray hairs I’ve counted on my head. But I still got her ungratefulass into a medically assisted residential treatment program. The downside is that they don’t allow visitors, which is hell on Toby. But if it gets her off the junk, it will be a small price to pay.
Toby stares down at the remnants of his dinner. “Maybe you can call the hospital tomorrow and see if they’ll put her on Facetime.”
I look at his sad face and silently curse my sister’s name. I know she has a disorder and that I’m not supposed to blame her for it. But some days that’s easier than others. “Bud, she’s not allowed to accept incoming calls.”
“What about making outgoing calls?”
“Um…” I don’t even know what to say. I think I read that she was allowed to call us once she passed the sixty-day mark. And she passed it a week ago. “I’m not sure,” I hedge.
He pushes his plate away. “Let’s not even have Christmas. What’s the point?”
Aw, hell. I search my heart for the right thing to say, and I don’t find it.Thanks, Shelby! Great work, here!
“The point of Christmas is chocolate lava cake,” my father says from the other side of the table. “That’s what we need. I saw it on the menu.”
Remarkably, Toby perks up. “Do we have to split one? Or can I get my own?”
“You can have one all to yourself,” I say quickly. “It’s Christmas.”
No dessert could make a dent in the shitty week we’re having. But for ten minutes maybe I can pretend.
On Christmas morning I wake up in my Four Seasons suite and check my phone. There’s a text from Tate the PR guy.
Tate
Please check your email for an Instagram login. Your password is COUGARS! and the “o” is a zero. There are three posts in draft.
I guess that guy never takes a day off. I already regret saying yes to social media.
But I log in anyway and peek at the posts he’s set up for me, preparing to hate them.
Except I don’t. This Tate guy must be pretty good at his job, because he’s chosen a few photos I don’t hate. One of them is me in a Cougars practice jersey standing next to Stoney. I’m actually smiling, which is rare these days. There’s also a photo of the Colorado mountains from the view of an airplane window, and a shot of my new Cougars jersey hanging in my stall on game day.
None of the captions offend me, so I post the one of the jersey, because why not make the publicist happy? At least someone on the team will like me.
Toby wakes up before long, and my father and I usher him toward the small pile of presents that we’d arranged on the coffee table in the living room of our suite. He’s getting some clothes and comic books in addition to the gaming console, which suddenly seems like a really smart purchase.
“Omigod! Omigod! Where did yougetthis?” he gushes.
“Just got lucky,” I say proudly. But the truth is that I paid triple for it on Ebay. And would have paid more if necessary. Anything to see this kid smile.
He takes it out of the package and holds the controller lovingly in two hands. Then his face crumples, and he shoves a hand in front of his eyes.
“What’s the matter?” I ask, panic creeping into my voice.
“I just realized I can’t show Trevor. Or play Ninjammers with him.”
My dad meets my gaze across the room, mirroring my helpless expression back to me.
Shit. “Can I play Ninjammers with you?” I ask.
“I guess.” Toby scrubs at his eyes. “You’ll have to do.”
Ninjammers, as it turns out, is nothing like the sporty games that Clay taught me to play back in the day. It’s a juvenile fighting game with ostentatious weaponry and an incomprehensible plot line. After an hour, I’ve had almost all I can take.
“Kid, it’s time for the Christmas brunch buffet,” I insist.
