“Don’t you know this by now?” Booker looks into my eyes. “We’re here when you need us. You don’t even have to ask. And you do the same for us all the time.”
I lean back on the bed, stretching. “I’m totally fucked,” I admit.
Ty props his feet up on the standard-issue hotel coffee table. “And you’re just figuring this out now? I could have told you that seven years ago.”
I laugh. “I knew it then, too. Doesn’t change the fact that I want her, and it’s never going to happen.”
Booker hops up and squats in front of the mini fridge, raiding it. That guy has even more of an appetite than I do. He finds a bag of peanuts, tears it open, and practically inhales it. Ty ambles over to the desk/counter and starts brewing a pot of coffee.
“Damn, I blinked, and my boys got domestic,” I joke.
“We learned from the best,” Booker smiles before riffling through the fridge again. “Everything in here is over-processed. We need real food, Whit, so if you want a shower, grab one now and be quick about it.”
I look down at my wrinkled shorts and realize that the last time I showered, it was with Lucy, so I’m way overdue. “Gimme five,” I call, swiping a couple towels and heading into the bathroom.
They’ve turned on the TV and by the time I turn the water on, they’re arguing over whether we should hit up the vegan juice bar Booker saw on Yelp or the greasy spoon Ty saw as they Ubered in.
I smile for the first time in two days.
* * *
Whit
We spent the day in the best possible way I could imagine, short of Lucy bursting into my hotel room and telling me she’s madly in love with me and doesn’t care about the obstacles in our way.
Ty, Book, and I bummed around the Rock Hall for hours. We even facetimed Knox so he could get in on the action.
There’s so much music history there, and I reveled in every minute of it. And though my boys aren’t diehard fans, I could tell they loved it, too. Ty stood in front of the Dylan exhibit for an hour, and Book let me drag him through the Springsteen exhibit.
An automated voice just told us the place is closing in fifteen minutes, and there’s an unspoken agreement between us that we’re staying until the last second. I’m standing in front of John Cougar Mellencamp’s acoustic guitar, flanked by two of my brothers, and closer than I’ve ever been to the father I never really knew.
We say nothing because there’s nothing to say. I wander to the last few exhibits before the final call, and at closing time, we walk out, shoulder to shoulder. We climb into my car, and since Booker’s at the wheel, I know we’re getting food.
He pulls into the diner he snubbed earlier, and I give him a look.
“What the hell?” Ty hollers from the backseat. “You made me drink a smoothie with fucking kale in it this morning and now you want greasy diner food?”
Booker shrugs unapologetically. “I’m starving, so yeah. Besides, I’m sure this place serves a Caesar salad. And anyway, what are you complaining about? I thought you wanted to eat here?”
“You’re just lucky they serve breakfast all day and I can get my French Toast fix,” Ty grumbles, climbing out of the car.
We’re seated in no time and I’m circling the edge of my milkshake glass with the tip of my finger while Ty and Book debate over their dinner choices.
“Raspberry-stuffed French Toast it is. Book, you want to split cheese fries or something?”
“Uh, what happened to the sanctity of breakfast?”
Ty shrugs. “That guy behind you got loaded cheese fries and they look like French-fried heaven, so I’m making an exception. And don’t tell me Coach will have your ass. You work out harder than anyone I know. Besides, I’m probably going to eat most of them.”
“Deal,” Book says, flipping over his menu. “What looks good, Whit?”
That’s when I realize I haven’t even looked at my own plastic-covered menu. “Uh…Patty Melt with onion rings,” I tell him, figuring that’s probably on the menu.
Our server comes by, and we place our orders. Ty hits the bathroom, and Booker just looks at me.
“I’m not gonna ask if you’re okay, Whit. You’re not. And you don’t have to be. But scale it for me?”
I nod, because this is something we’ve been doing since about the seventh grade, when my depression and ADHD both went into overdrive. Puberty’s a bitch. And we’ve been doing a lot more of it in the last year. It’s basically me just rating my mental health on a scale of 1-10. But that number means a lot to Booker, so I tell him honestly, “Five.”
