Page 98 of Straight Dad
The dog at my side slides down to curl into me, head on my lap, and does the same. As far as shitty lives go, today isn’t that bad.
* * *
Livy
My phone is like a hot potato. The message from Layton taunts me.
I want to let him off the hook and I want to yank that hook in deeper. He can’t flirt with me, woo me, play my body like an instrument, and then ghost me for as long as he did, only to hit me with the authentic Layton I’ve come to know.
Layton:I don’t blame you. I’m sorry you thought that. I wish I’d seen your message sooner, so you didn’t spend months feeling like I could think that.
The thing is the read receipt from the message before is three days prior. He read my last message seventy-two hours before formulating this. I’d think he was playing games, but that’s not Layton Ranger’s M.O.
He’s a straight-up, call ’em as he sees ’em, brutal honesty kind of guy.
When he had a chance to play games, he didn’t. And he stands to win nothing now. So why do it?
I’ve had a couple of days of staring at that message. I’m not playing games either, but I haven’t decided what to say or how to respond.
Or if I’ll respond.
Is this an olive branch? Or was he just looking to assuage his guilt?
Is he offering absolution or requesting it?
The last one is what gets me. I assumed he was offering it when I saw it the day before yesterday. Now, I’m not so sure.
My phone buzzes while I’m deep in thought, surprising me, and I bobble it.
I grab it, trapping it between my therapy table and my hip, before it crashes to the floor.
Me:klm bnh
For all my eloquence and pondering, for all the deep thought about whether to respond, and if so, how, I’ve offered the perfect response of “klm bnh.”
A knock on my door divides my attention as my phone buzzes again from beside me. “Come in.”
In walks the new punter. Sam is young and fresh out of college and aggressively gunning for Hans Carlson’s position. He’s small, though, and finds the NFL workouts more rigorous than he expected and more cutthroat than he could dream. He’s told me this as we’ve worked on mobility on my table and increased flexibility.
I’ve suggested he come to my yoga class, but it seems he’s more into one-on-one.
“Good morning, Sam. What can I do for you?”
He puts a hand to his glute and walks toward the table. “There’s tightness down through my knee here. Can you take a look?”
“Sure. Hop on up.” I gesture to the table and slide my buzzing phone into my pocket.
He lies face down and points to his right side.
“What’s changed?” I ask. “Are you taking a different approach, feeling a deeper stretch? You’ve been kicking a long time without a problem, so what’s new?”
“I don’t know, Olivia.” He fumbles over my name as if he’s testing it on his tongue. He’s always called me Dr. Morgan, so this is new. And not necessarily welcome. “I think it’s turf. I’m used to natural grass. If I had to guess, that’s impacting my stride.”
“And where do you notice it?”
He points at a long thin muscle that runs the length of his outer thigh.
“And do you notice anything here?” I point with my hand toward his hip.