Page 25 of The Last Guy On Earth
“God. Poor Toby.”
“It could havebeenToby in that car.” His face darkens. “We’re obviously not over it. Sorry he mouthed off to you.”
“Eh. Sounds like he needed to vent.”
Toby reappears with his jacket and a comic book. “I’m hungry. Can we drive through McDonald’s?”
“Nah, we’ll get a real dinner with Grandpa after this.”
Looking put out, Toby glances into my shopping bag. “Got any cookies?”
I stifle a laugh. “How about an apple?”
He brightens. “Sure. Thanks.”
I lean over and root into my shopping bag. “Here we go.”
Toby takes it, but now he’s frowning at my groceries. “What the heck isonion jam?”
My neck heats for some stupid reason. And then I make it worse by looking up at Jethro.
For the first time since he arrived in Colorado, he looks back at me. Reallylooks. And for a couple glugs of my heart, we’re right back in New York State. We’re twenty-something idiotsagain, standing in our slummy apartment, getting to know each other one meal at a time.
I loved him. Right from the start, probably. The first time we sat down at our kitchen table together, I felt as if we belonged there together.
But he didn’t feel the same way about me. And it will always hurt.
TWELVE
Fifteen Years Ago
FEBRUARY
After the gamethey just played against a Maine team, Clay knows he should be chilling out and feeling satisfied about the win. Instead, he’s watching the door to their motel room with nerves fizzing in his belly.
As winter drags on, the Busker Brutes are finally clicking. Passes connect. More of Clay’s shots find their way into the damn net. Their stat sheet has completely turned around, and a spot in the playoffs looks pretty likely.
Clay, as the high scorer, gets a lot of credit whenever a local journalist bothers to write up their team, which isn’t that often. But he likes to think his impact on the team is bigger than some well-timed shots. He’s been building morale for months, one back-slap at a time. The locker room isn’t quite so tense and silent anymore.
Things are going well. So many things. And yet he’s still eyeing the door at the motor lodge, wondering what’s taking Jethro so long to come back with their pizza. Wondering if this is the night when Jethro will notice how needy Clay is for his company.
And worrying that he’s about to throw a wrench into things, when maybe he should just fucking enjoy his life for a half second without sabotaging himself.
Finally, when he’s almost convinced himself that Jethro fed the other half of the pizza to someone else, the key card lock buzzes and the door clicks open.
And there’s Jethro, filling the door with his lanky body, a large pizza box, and an uncharacteristic smile. “Was that a great game or what?” he asks with no preamble.
“You know it.”
Jethro had a clean sheet, and Clay had two goals. They’re celebrating with a large pepperoni from the divey-looking place across the street from the roadside motel.
Clay gets up and grabs the pizza box while Jethro kicks off his shoes and sheds his coat. He tosses the box on his bed and opens the lid.
Jethro swoops in to grab a piece, sitting on the edge of the other bed. “The look on that winger’s face when you stripped him in the third.” He cackles before taking a big bite.
“I know, right? And the look on their coach’s face when you shut him down for the millionth time.” Clay smiles to himself as he tastes his first bite. “This sauce isn’t as good as mine.”
Jethro’s agreement is instant. “How could it be?”
