113. Inextricably Linked
INEXTRICABLY LINKED
LAYTON
The nightmares have never gone away. The flying cars. The sound of steel and aluminum colliding and my own scream drowning into them. The smell of mangled metal and the rain of cold glass embedding in my flesh.
The sulphury smell of deployed airbag powder and the heat of spotlights as men shouted and worked. The stickiness of blood and the crane with the jaws of life positioned close to my head. The smell of urine and feces and oil and coolant. The pinch inside my hip and the nothingness of numb legs.
The feeling I could see my mom again, or I’d have to fight to push away from her welcome to stay on this side of that line.
The nightly images and sounds assault me and I wake, yet again, in a cold sweat, with my pulse racing and my lungs furiously sucking in air. Some nights are worse than others. Tonight is the worst in months.
That fucker in the electric-blue sports car is suing me. He wants me to pay him because his mistake was against someone who was famous and rich.
Was.
Since then, my ability to make a name for myself has been stolen, and the money I was building for my future has been dammed at the source.
My heart is pounding and going back to sleep will take some time. I do what I haven’t done in forever and grab my phone. No Angry Birds for me right now, though.
I lift the phone seeing the email icon is down to one unread message. No unread texts. No waiting voicemails.
I open the email app and am shocked to see a read message from a name I don’t want in my inbox – Charlie Schmidt.
I’m in a foul mood already. What’s the worst that could happen? I shouldn’t have asked that question, because the simple two-sentence message taunts me.
Layton,
We were sorry to hear about your accident. Wishing you a speedy recovery and would welcome you to our team when you’re ready to take the field again.
Charlie
Tingle, Schmidt and Associates
It doesn’t take opening the next message to know the difference in the quality of my agent versus that fucker. It’s to Emberleigh from George, copying me, and has an entire thread.
Dear Emberleigh,
I’m so glad to hear that Layton is doing well at home in Texas. I have your/his instructions and will connect with team management in the morning regarding his contract, IR, and any next steps regarding his recovery.
I felt like a sell-out calling Kimpton, but I have too much love and respect for Layton not to do for him what I would for a biological brother if I had one.
I hate the idea of not catching up with him on any given drive home from practice, but am thankful he’s surrounded by family who will fight for him even if that’s with him.
Has any decision been made on Excel? I’ve been able to push them off and will continue to until Layton determines the best course for his future with them. In the meantime, they’ve been pleased with the referral of Livy Morgan and that’s gone a long way in smoothing over their frustrations.
Please give the Ranger clan my best and tell Layton I’m here anytime he needs. I’ve sent a package or two his way, but never received confirmation of receipt. One day I’ll give him shit for that.
What’s next on our list to make this time as easy as possible for him?
Best,
George
Taking a risk on George when we were both young and inexperienced was one of the better decisions I’ve made in my life. Not once in his message to Emberleigh did he discuss money, terms, or potential impact to him.
Livy Morgan. How will I ever escape her?
She is inextricably linked to me in a way few can understand. And even fewer should understand.
Since I’m not sleeping anyway and my best friend has worn off, I’m courting pain.
I open the text messages app and scroll to her name. They’re almost at the bottom since there’s been only three attempt since I left the hospital.
Morgan, Olivia: I’m going to come to the hospital tomorrow. I’ll admit I’m nervous. You haven’t returned a text yet.
Morgan, Olivia: I’m not blaming you. That came out wrong. Delete that and pretend I didn’t accuse you of not thinking of me with all that’s going on.
Morgan, Olivia: Your dad is as formidable as you. I’m glad you have him to advocate for you. With what I’ve seen in these situations, it’ll be the best thing you could do.
Morgan, Olivia: Not work related, but how are you? I’m hearing things around the office. I’m sure you’ll hate hearing that, but I want the truth from the source, not the tea from around the locker room.
Morgan, Olivia: Is there a good time today to come by?
Morgan, Olivia: I’m beginning to think your dad’s frustration at the team translates to me too.
Morgan, Olivia: I’m supposed to develop a plan for you. If you don’t want one, I understand. My assumption is you’d want to be involved in it so you know next steps and have control of outcomes.
Morgan, Olivia: You know those girls who come off desperate. That’s what I feel like. So many unanswered messages. I’m your therapist and am trying to do the right thing by you and the team.
Morgan, Olivia: I heard you were discharged. I’m happy you’re able to head home. That’s a good sign and one that says your body is healing. You know I’m here when you need me.
Morgan, Olivia: It’s the middle of the night. I can’t sleep because I wonder if you blame me. If I hadn’t been at Dr. Silverberg’s place and … I can’t finish that thought. Please don’t hate me.
Morgan, Olivia: Be well, Layton. I have nothing but the utmost respect for you. I wish you healing and happiness and wherever you place your feet, love and light and laughter.
And then four months of nothing
Me: I don’t blame you. I’m sorry you thought that. I wish I’d seen your messages sooner, so you didn’t spend months wondering if I thought that.
I want to say more.
I want to say less.
I flip the phone upside down on the nightstand and consider this whole fucked-up situation.
The wrong woman at the wrong time is easy to walk away from. The wrong woman at the right time isn’t worth any effort at all. There’s no point.
But the right woman at the wrong time? That was always the dilemma.
Livy Morgan is perfect.
And I couldn’t have her.
It would’ve been detrimental… her hopes and dreams dashed, her sense of self abandoned. Everything she’d worked for would’ve been smashed to bits. Word getting out would’ve ruined her. I had one choice, one card to play.
Walk away.
And now? Now she could have it all, and I can’t be what she needs or who she deserves.
The right woman deserves it all, and since it’s in my power to give it to her, I will. I’ll ease her mind and relieve her heart of this burden.
And again, I’ll take the high road.
Again, I’ll lose a good woman.
Again, I’ll fight to survive the after.
Livy
I rise with the sun and head to the beach. It’s already warm, but the wind blows off the water. I close my eyes and take deep steadying breaths, thanking the sun for rising and granting me one more day.
My practice has changed since I got home. I assume I’m breathing life into my body. It may be silly, but I can visualize what strangles me or I can imagine the pure air pushing oxygen and light to where it should be.
It’s allowed for a different focus. The mind-body-soul connection is less in my head and more rooted in my body. I’m in tune with the movement and the why and am thrilled with how clear my mind is and how strong my body is.
The soul part is a work in progress.
I walked away from my parents’ home and left Mother, Father, and Natalia—as she demands to be called—there.
Their position in the kitchen, their posture, the anger and the displeasure on their faces, the rising anger in their voices…
all are burned in my memory with the scent of lemon wood polish and burned espresso beans.
It was a defining moment. It’s not as if they ever doted on me, but now that I see the condescension and control coupled with never-ending correction, it’s easy to put my mental and emotional health above their demands. Easy is the wrong word. It’s necessary.
No matter the striving, it will never be enough. No matter the achievement, it could’ve been more.
No amount of me bowing and scraping will grant me their approval.
I sat at Fenway and cried. I mourned the loss of my family. I grieved the relationships I wished I’d had with them. I sat in the sunshine with the jeers and cheers and accepted the hand I’d been dealt and held it up against what I desired my life would’ve been.
I wished my mother had been a mom. I wished I had someone to meet me in Delaware and hold me when I heard my fate.
I wished my dad had wanted to hold me on his lap and tell me stories, even if they were rip-offs of Medieval literature with a Livy twist. I wished my sister told me secrets and was safe to share mine with. I wished I’d had a best friend in her.
And by the seventh inning stretch when the crowd was on their feet, swaying with beer and singing a one-hundred-year-old song, one that’s been surely sung by millions of people, I dried my eyes, released my grievances, and made my way to the gate for my Uber.
I got on the plane with swollen eyes, a baseball tank that was too big, and I left it all behind.
Like coming from under the surface of water, I broke through, took a gasping breath of air, and shed those what-ifs and I-wishes. When the runway fell below our feet, I left the shackles there.
My life is a good one. My home is amazing. My job is fulfilling. My friendships are life-saving and life-giving. My mind is strong. And Kyle is perfect.
It’s hard to ask for more.
I end my time with my toes squished in the sand, thankful for what my body can do, appreciative of how I’ve grown, and hopeful for what is to come. I bow to the ocean and the sun and thank the earth for a glorious art show.
Namaste.
Heading back, I slide into the front door and don’t have to call for Kyle.
He sits sentry and waits. His gangly puppyhood turned on a dime when Tustin threatened.
He’s still a goof, but he’s far more protective, far more intentional.
I love it and I hate it. I miss the old Kyle, but this one is nice too.
“You ready?”
I leash him up, and we begin our morning together. I slide my phone into my pocket. I didn’t use to do this. I liked the freedom of not having the digital tether, but the media storm and the psycho means I put freedom aside for safety and security that might only be a phone call away.
Not that I’m happy about it. It’s just a necessity.
We walk out the door, onto the sidewalk and put in a mile or two before it gets too warm. He’s panting and his tongue is lolling by the time we get back. He’ll sleep well while I’m at work.
I hit the shower while he slops water all over my floors. I grab my phone to check the weather. I don’t know why this is a habit. It’s Florida the first week of August. It’ll be hot and muggy. How hot is the question. Instead, I’m shocked to see a message from Layton.
It’s been … months.
Layton: I don’t blame you. I’m sorry you thought that. I wish I’d seen your messages sooner, so you didn’t spend months wondering if I thought that.
He’s offering absolution, which is a relief, but it’s too little, too late.
Especially since it shows he read the message a few days ago and responded… in the middle of the night.
The whole thing is bizarre.
And annoying.
I won’t let it ruffle me today. Full-contact practice is in full swing. We have plans to adjust with medical staff and athletic training personnel. There’s work to do and assuaging Layton Ranger’s guilt cannot be a distraction.