115. Very Rivendell
VERY RIVENDELL
LAYTON
My retirement is official. The has been title is not presumed but actual.
I knew that at some point I’d need to have a life outside the game. But I thought I’d be old and tired and have knees that sounded like wet Rice Krispies at that point.
Well, two out of three ain’t bad.
There’s a knock on my bedroom door accompanied by a scratch. Gone are the days of sleeping undisturbed in my dark guest room with no interruptions and being safe from well-meaning family members.
“Yeah?” I holler, which is taken for enter and not simply what?
Pop pushes open the door. Sola and Luna run past him into the room. Luna takes up position at what I assume is her spot—the floor at the foot of the bed between me and the door. Sola rounds the footboard and leaps, landing on the mattress, paw at the ready, air-high-fiving me.
Pop rolls his eyes. “You always had the touch.” He pushes the door all the way open. “Come on then. Dinner’s on the table.”
“Uh, Pop, I’m not hungry.”
“Son, you were hungry every single day of your life until April.” He levels me with his gaze. “If you don’t want to eat, that’s fine. But the family’s here, and we’re having dinner.”
I want to protest. I want to be alone and wallow.
But more, I want to go home.
Home is the end-game.
I can fake it until I get home.
I scratch under Sola’s chin, looking into his tri-colored face, but speak to my dad in the doorway. “Be right there.”
I wasn’t treated like this much of a teenager when I lived here in high school.
I stare at my walker. I need it. It helps tremendously.
How much of that is mental is still left to be determined.
The question really becomes does it help me get home or not.
I leave it, wrestling with anxiety of not having it, and am at the mouth of the door before I grab a half a tablet from my pocket and toss it under my tongue.
It tastes bitter and metallic, with a hint of chalk and sweaty ass. But I’ll make it through dinner.
I’m sure I will.
That is, until I see the dining room table. What is this—Thanksgiving?
“Hey,” a multitude of people at the table say. Some of their smiles are pity. Others are genuine. The only one who rises is Elias, Brighton’s fiancé, who walks to me and shakes my hand, clapping his other hand above my elbow.
“Good to see you, Layton. Sorry it’s under these circumstances. Bright says you’re coming over for dinner soon.”
I look at my sister. “Oh, does she?”
“Yep,” she pipes in from her place at the other side, as she sets down her glass.
“I’m looking forward to it,” I offer Elias. “I owe Looney a lifetime of dog treats.” I scratch the blond forehead at my right hip, just as Sola twirls in a circle, sits, and barks.
I stare at him. “What was that? Was it the word treat?” Once again, Sola makes a loop, sits, and barks. “Well, that’s impressive.”
I navigate to the table and clench my jaw as I sit, doing everything I can not to grunt or whimper as I fall into the chair. I fail, but I don’t shame myself either.
Plates are passed, and I take a little of everything. I’m not hungry, but I don’t want the stares or the comments, so I’ll force this down and um and ah at the right points.
My brothers watch me. Exton is no doubt reading the situation. Braxton is… well, Braxton—the oldest, the business man, the rancher.
Emberleigh helps Colt who sits between her and Pop. Pop watches the table, helping with his grandson while listening to the chatter. It was Exton’s wedding the last time we were all together.
But it was Christmas the last time we were all together like this. Colt’s grown so much in that nearly nine-month time span. Sola isn’t a pup any longer. And Pop looks far more tired than he did then.
“So,” I begin, drawing out the word quietly. “What’s the occasion?”
They all turn to me, eyes fixated on my face.
After a long pause that’s too long, I set down my fork. “What’s the deal? We haven’t done this since Exton and Willa’s wedding or Christmas before that. What are we celebrating?”
It’s Pop who answers. “Son, we’ve been together through all of each other’s highs and lows… as much as we’ve been able, anyway. Today isn’t a high, and we’re not celebrating anything. We just wanted to be with you.”
“So this is a Layton lost his job party? I love”—I draw out the word in case they miss the sarcasm—“when people pity me.”
“Stop.” Pop slams his hand on the table, scaring Colt, causing him to jump and cry. Sola whimpers and heads toward my nephew, pushing his nose into the boy’s seat.
“Why? It’s my life. What if I don’t want to celebrate being washed up before my thirtieth birthday? What if I don’t want a ticker tape parade for losing the only thing I cared about?”
“What if you’re not the only one this affects?
” he tosses right back. “What if we’re trying to support you?
What if we’re just so fucking grateful you’re still in the room that we tolerate your piss-poor attitude and self-destructive behavior, because then at least—” His voice cracks.
“At least you’re alive, and we get another day? ”
Colt’s cries are the only sound in the hushed room.
He stands and tosses his napkin down, rubbing his knuckles across the back of his eyes.
“I miss Emilia every day. Every damn day. But these past few months? They’ve been some of the worst. She’d know what to do.
She’d know how to reach you. She’d know how to get it through your thick skull that you were always more than your skill on the field, always better than what you give yourself credit for.
She’d shake you until your teeth rattled to remind you of who you are.
God, I miss her. She could save you, even if you didn’t want saving. And I’m… lost.”
Head down, still scrubbing his eyes, he leaves the table, boots thumping as he pulls open the front door and stomps down the porch stairs.
Braxton bows up in his chair. His voice is measured and quiet. “You have no idea what it’s been like since your accident. Pop worries constantly. Security cameras pick him up at the barn in the middle of the night. I don’t think he sleeps.”
“I didn’t ask for that. I didn’t ask for this.” I gesture to my body.
“No, you didn’t, but you sure aren’t doing anything to fix it either.”
“Fuck you, Brax.”
“Feck cue,” Colt repeats, smashing a baby fork into macaroni and cheese. “Feck cue.”
If looks could kill, the one Braxton turns on me now would incinerate me to ash. He stands, his chair scraping across the wood.
Emberleigh places a firm hand on his wrist. “Sit down, Braxton.”
“No.”
“Yes. You may be the oldest, but it doesn’t make you a parent.” She tugs at his sleeve. “Layton needs his brother, not another dad. Team Ranger is a team, not a captain plus three. Please, sit.”
Braxton exhales and sits, but his face never changes.
Emberleigh continues, “I’m not a Ranger by birth. I’m not even a Ranger by marriage—”
“Yet,” Braxton interjects.
“Yet,” Emberleigh echoes. “But this family has surrounded me and made me their own. You don’t have to see eye to eye. We don’t have to see eye to eye, but we’re family. Layton doesn’t have to celebrate, and he doesn’t have to take responsibility for what he didn’t do.”
Braxton clenches his jaw as Colt says, “Feck cue,” to his noodles.
“Pop not sleeping isn’t on Layton. Now, for what is, that’s on him. For what help we can provide, that’s on us. It’s what Rangers do.”
“Hear, hear.” Willa raises her glass. She turns her face to me. “I don’t know you as well as I’d like, but you’ve been clutch for me, been a brother to me, saved my sanity and Exton’s more than once. I’m team Layton all the way.”
My nose tickles as I exhale.
Elias pipes in. “You’ve been in my life as long as Braxton has. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for this family. That includes you. Call or text, day or night. I’m here for you, brother.” He extends a fist, and I tap my knuckles with his.
“You’re my ride or die. Period. If you don’t ask when you need help, there will be hell to pay.”
“Oh, my delicate little sister,” Exton cuts in with a smile. “At the risk of being the dork here, I feel like Legolas when Frodo decides to take the ring to Mordor. When he says ‘you have my bow.’ I’m here. One hundred percent. No questions asked. Okay?”
I can feel the tickle in my nose become a tingle and grind my molars to not be overcome with more emotion than I can stand.
Braxton looks a bit ashamed. His eyes are sincere when he holds mine. “You see that little man?” He points at Colt. “The one repeating curse words he learned from you?”
I nod.
“I’d fight wolves bare-handed if I had to for him. I’d take a bullet for him. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to protect him… Very little I wouldn’t do just to know he’s happy. So I get where Pop is coming from.”
My eyes must be defiant. Here we go again with the lecture.
“But I would do the same for you. The thing is, Layton, you’ve never needed that. You blaze your own path, stand on your own two feet, and take no prisoners. I’ll fight the wolves for you. I’ll battle demons with you. I’d be proud to be at your side in either fight.”
I lose the battle with my nose as I feel it warm. “Very Rivendell,” I snark, just to cut the tension. “But thank you. That means everything.” I look from person to person, stopping on Colt. “And don’t say bad words, buddy. If you do, blame it on Uncle Eli, okay?”
“Unca Eli,” he repeats and, with that, a bit of levity is restored to the room.
We finish eating, mostly discussing mundane, daily life things. Nothing emotionally deep. No bombs lobbed at one another. Just family, sitting around a table, being family.
Eventually Eli and Bright clear the table and return with coffee and dessert.
“When did we get so old we do the coffee thing at night?” I ask as Exton taps Willa’s leg and rises from his chair, heading for the front door.
Bright speaks to no one in particular. “Some of us are old.”
“Shut up.” Braxton smiles and throws a balled-up napkin at her.
Eli pinches her side. “Seriously? It was one gray hair. One.”
“On your chest,” Brighton shoots back as she begins pouring coffee.
“None for me.” Willa extends a hand over her cup as if we’re in a restaurant. “I already don’t sleep well. If the dude gets coffee this late, he’ll be rocking and rolling like he clubs for a living.”
“How’re you feeling?” Emberleigh asks.
“Good. I’m tired and I’m over this summer. Don’t do summers. Plan every pregnancy to deliver in April. Promise me. Feeling like a brick oven all the time is not where it’s at.”
I hum the melody to ‘Brick House’ as I watch Colt. He’s working some kind of no-bake cheesecake into his skin and eyelashes and doing a happy dance at the same time. When my eyes leave his, I realize that everyone at the table is staring at me.
All conversation stops. I look around, from face to face wondering what I’ve missed. “What?”
“‘Brick House’?”
“The Commodores are awesome. The song is epic. No explanation required.”
“Brick,” Eli starts.
To be met with Bright’s delayed and spot-on, “House.”
From there, Brax begins the chorus and the table erupts in song. Willa grooves in her seat as behind me, the door clicks closed. Exton approaches his wife. “What did I miss, dragon slayer?”
Pop circles the table and sits in his chair, grabbing a mug of coffee. “Brings me back.”
“I’m sorry, Pop,” I offer.
He nods, turning his gaze from me to Exton. Mine do the same, but what’s passing between them is outside of my understanding.