Page 111 of The Check Down
Chapter twenty-five
Brynn
As the automatic door slides open, I roll my carry-on out into the seventy-four-degree day and shield my eyes, wishing I’d remembered to pack sunglasses. I scan the busy street outside the terminal. Taxis, ride shares, and hotel shuttles sit bumper-to-bumper in the loading lane, and busy travelers weave in and out of foot traffic, dragging their wheeled luggage in their wake.
I check my phone. The Blues’ bus should be leaving the hotel about now. I’m hitting send on a text to Griffin when a series of honks and a “Yoo-hoo! Moonbeam!” pull my attention back to the street.
Mom’s hanging out the passenger window, waving both arms, her curls bouncing. Dad, enthusiastic, though not to Mom’s level, waves from behind the wheel. They roll forward until they find a place to pull over, and I hurry their way.
When my mother opens her door and lets loose a pterodactyl screech, several passersby gawk.
“My love is here.” She cups my face and kisses my cheek, then pulls me in for a fierce hug. Her familiar patchouli-infused scent surrounds me. Comforting and safe.
Dad deposits my suitcase in the trunk of the Prius, then joins us on the sidewalk, completing our Nelson family embrace.
A few angry honks break us apart, and we scramble into the car.
Once she’s buckled, Mom twists around and props her chin on her seat, checking me over. “Your spirit is tired, love. Worried. Happy, but worried.”
“That about sums it up.” I give her a weak smile.
“Hmm.” She searches my face, so much love in her hazel eyes that I have to fist my hands in my sweater to keep my emotions in check. “You and that hunk of yours are in deep. But you’ve come to a bump in the road, and you’re not sure how to get over it. What is it? A miscommunication?”
My mother’s ability to read me like a book never ceases to amaze me.
When I called to tell them that I was coming down for a couple of days, I mentioned the interview, but I didn’t mention that Griffin had signed for another year and that we might have to endure a lengthy separation.
On the drive home, I spill all the details. The shock of the contract extension, my gut instinct to take this interview, my guilt about missing the game tonight, and how torn I am about the possibility of having to move if I’m offered the job.
By the time Dad pulls into the driveway and parks beside his car’s twin, I’m emotional and exhausted. But walking up the flagstone driveway to my childhood home never fails to bring me joy. The cozy 1950s ranch-style house is turquoise, with a slanted roof and palm tree sentinels in the front yard. As always, the sight of it makes me think of cartwheels and bomb pops and flip-flops. If I close my eyes, I can almost smell the sunscreen and grilled hot dogs and chlorine of my youth.
My parents’ eclectic tastes greet me when I take off my shoes at the door and relish the feel of the cool white tile beneath my feet. The rattan couch and chairs with bold, vibrant floral cushions are inviting, but my weary body needs more comfort than they can provide.
Mom, as usual, reads my mind. “Why don’t you go lay down for a bit? Dad’s grilling kebabs for dinner. I’ll wake you when they’re ready, then we’ll watch the game.”
My childhood bedroom is like a Brynn time-capsule. The sage-green walls Dad and I painted for my sixteenth birthday. The white wicker bookshelf that’s stuffed to the brim with books that chart the evolution of my life—from Tomie dePaola picture books to Judy Blume chapter books to Jane Austen novels. The dragon statues and snow globes I left behind clutter the built-in shelves in the little desk nook, and the closet door is still papered with fanciful dragon posters.
I stretch out on the lavender chenille bedspread and send Griff a couple of more texts. He won’t respond, and it’s possible he might not even see them until after the game, but I want him to know I’m thinking about him.
I’m always thinking about him.
Missing my boyfriend and my emotional support stuffed dragon, I curl up on my side, clasp my rose quartz pendant, and let the promise of a restorative nap pull me under.
I wake when the sun is low in the sky, and the aroma of grilled meat and vegetables wafts in through the screened patio door. I change into loungewear and find Mom in the kitchen, mixing rum runners.
“Sleep well, love?” she says with a kiss to my head. “Dinner should be ready in a few.”
We eat steak and shrimp kebabs at the round glass-top table while pregame commentary blares from the TV in the living room. The media has called the Blues the underdogs all week, and tonight they double down on that label. Every analyst on the broadcast picks the opposing team to win.
Mom and Dad insist they’ll handle dinner clean-up and shoo me away, so I settle on the end of the couch with a second cocktail and take in the details of the field. Mounds of snow decorate thesidelines, and the wind chill at kickoff is three degrees. Needless to say, when the guys aren’t on the field, they huddle under huge, heavy coats.
Mom has dropped onto the couch beside me by the time Griffin’s face flashes on the screen. Grasping my arm, she cheers. “Ooh, all that testosterone. My Moonbeam is a lucky girl. Has he used the pillow trick yet?”
“Mom.” I roll my eyes at Dad. He, of course, shakes his head and gives my mother an indulgent smile.
The game is a nail-biter, and the teams are equally matched as they battle for possession. My heart rate elevates every time the lead changes, and there are times I grip Mom’s hand as tightly as Paige held mine last weekend.
Griff takes a hard hit in the third quarter, and I hold my breath when he doesn’t get up right away. An eternity seems to pass before he reaches for Tyrell to help him off the turf.