His jawline tics as he strides to the doors. He’s dressed in black, from his Doc Martens to his expensively ripped shirt. Thick silver rings adorn his fingers as they tap the side of his thigh. I used to think his anger aura was just the result of him being a hot guy with inner demons. Which is true. He is angsty.
My eyes shut to erase images of him holding me when my grandmother passed away, his soft voice telling me he’d take care of the arrangements, that he’d make sure she got the service she deserved. Then there was the wake. While I was a mess, he arranged for a meal to be catered at the apartment and filled it with white calla lilies, her favorite flower. A few months later, I recall him carrying me into the ER, his face torn with anguish. I can still feel the brush of his lips on my forehead, the wetness of his tears—
I push him away. I have to end it. I’m not my mother.
The Lambo’s engine roars to life, and I creep slowly out of the lot, then hit the accelerator as I head toward the airport.
I’m sorry, G.
Chapter 3
GRAHAM
Another day crossed off in my odyssey across the desert. I exhale heavily as déjà vu pricks at me.
I’ve missed something, somewhere.
Was it the encounter with Emmy?
My head circles back to the bruises on her throat, dark spots on either side that looked suspiciously like fingerprints. Sure, she sensed my awareness of them and popped the collar on her shirt, but I saw. Once the initial shock of how we’d “met” had worn off and I focused on her, I sensed the fragileness she held together beneath her bravado. I grimace. Kinda like me.
I almost knocked on her door to see if she wanted to come to dinner but decided I needed to be alone to figure out what’s next on this trip.
The two things I know for sure are this: I’ve seen enough roadkill armadillos to last a lifetime, and this place is lonely as fuck.
Yes, I came out here to be able to drive my car in the desert, but the real idea came from a dream where I saw an endless highway in a barren wasteland. It’s my theory that the images I saw while being “dead” on the field come when I’m asleep, or maybe it’s just my subconscious conjuring up random ideas to compensate for the frustration I feel for not being able to recall them.
Except for that iguana on the motel sign. My intuition said, This, this.
I jerked the wheel and pulled in.
Pain ripples inside my head, and I massage my temples, willing the ache to disappear. I fumble in the pocket of my jeans and tug out my meds and pop one in my mouth. I pick up my coffee and take a hasty sip.
My diagnosis is postconcussive syndrome—headaches and dizziness, two things a football player does not need. It’s not uncommon for players to have them, and they usually resolve in a few months, but mine still linger.
I’m inside the Roller Diner across the street from the motel. Patsy Cline sings from the jukebox. Above me, ceiling fans turn slowly, creating a soft whir over the clang of plates and silverware. The place smells like grease and coffee. I came in and picked out the darkest part of the restaurant to sit.
“Here you go, our special today,” the waitress says in a sugary voice as she places down my honey chicken, rice, and egg rolls.
“Great.” I barely read the menu.
“Can I get you anything else? More water? Coffee?” Her hand goes to her hip, calling attention to a curved body that fills out her pink uniform. She’s attractive, with dark hair and red lips.
“I’m good.”
She smiles, lingering.
I raise a brow.
“I almost forgot your fortune cookie.” She takes it off her tray and places it down, then gazes at me expectantly.
Mom loved fortune cookies and horoscopes, and I never pass one up for her. It’s almost as if she’s talking to me through them. I crack it open and pull out the tiny piece of paper. I never was one to wait until the end of the meal.
Come out of the dark and embrace the sunshine. I blink away the sting of emotion that pricks my eyelids. It sounds exactly like something she’d say. I’ve been in the dark ever since my tackle on the field.
The waitress still hasn’t walked away. She giggles, and I glance up. “Um, are you Graham Harlan, the tight end for the Pythons? See, the fry cook said you were, but I said, ‘What on earth would he be doing in Old Town?’ He bet me five bucks it was you. Are you him?”
Normally, I am not the most recognizable player on the team. That’s reserved for quarterbacks and wide receivers, but the entire team has been on the TV since the Super Bowl. I’ve picked up some rabid fans, a lot of them female, plus more requests for interviews, and while that’s great for the franchise, I’m not one to share publicly about my life.