Page 91 of The Last Guy On Earth
“I did,” I say quietly. “Once. A long time ago.”
His eyes bulge, and his face reddens. The man has a heart condition, and I wonder if I’m going to be dialing 911 in a second.But then he takes a deep, gulping breath and looks down at the table. “Jesus Christ, why are we discussing this in a public place?”
“But you said nobody can hear us,” Toby chirps.
I can’t hold back a snort. “Right. And this conversation is probably overdue. I’m not ashamed of it, by the way. Not anymore.”
My father looks up sharply. “Did something happen?”
Yeah, I lost Clay. “No. There’s no story. I was just young and dumb back then. I thought I cared what other people think.” The implication is clear.People like you.
“Goddamn it, Jethro.” My father gives his head a shake of disgust. “You’re always pushing my buttons. Always trying to put me in my place.”
“It’s not like that at all,” I insist. “I’m not looking to have a long conversation about it. But it’s not okay to use slurs. Even if they didn’t apply to me, it’s still not cool.”
My father looks like he wants to snarl at me, but the waiter picks this moment to approach the table. “Have we decided what we want?”
“I have,” Toby says brightly. “Can we please have the gyoza to start? The large size. Fried. And can I have the shrimp tempura and an avocado roll?”
“Yessir. And you, sir?” He turns to me.
“A dragon roll, four pieces of tuna nigiri, and the spicy salmon roll. That’s my ex-boyfriend’s favorite.”
The waiter writes that down without even blinking, while my father looks mildly nauseated.
Toby, though. He watches me with bright eyes and a proud smile.
So I know I did good.
FORTY
Clay
“Travel is locked down for Seattle,”Liana says via the smart speaker on my kitchen counter. “I have you in a suite. We’re removing the bed from the second bedroom and installing a conference table and video equipment.”
“Cool,” I say, tossing zucchini slices with minced garlic. I’m meal-prepping ahead of the playoffs.
“Tomorrow you’ve got morning skate, followed by a risk-assessment meeting, followed by video review and strategy.”
“Yup. Hold on. I need to drain my noodles.”
“Coach? What are you making?”
“Lasagna. It freezes well in individual portions.”
She huffs. “I know a private chef who could feed you during the playoffs. You have more important things to do with your time.”
The problem is that I don’t, in fact, have better things to do, or anyone to do them with. “Cooking calms me down. We’ve been over this.”
I’m not exactly calm, though. Not by a big stretch. Exercise and cooking are my only healthy outlets, and neither one of them is quite cutting it tonight. So after we hang up, I go to the pantry,pull out a bottle of single malt that I’d been saving, and pour myself a dram.
With military precision, I make eight individual lasagnas in Pyrex containers, with various fillings and toppings, and I place seven of them in the freezer. The last one goes into the oven as I pour myself another whisky.
And then I feel guilty for the whisky, so I put on my sweats and do a few sets on the weight bench in my home gym.
There’s nothing on TV that can hold my attention, and I don’t have anything new to read. So while I’m eating my lasagna, I text my sister. She responds a few times. But then:
Sorry Clazy, GTG! It’s date night. Time for dinner and mocktails!
