Two weeks after the family’s departure, too many other critical issues vie for my attention for me to dwell on Gloria’s plans for my future.
Like Draft Day.
Both Jet and I are trying valiantly to pretend it’s not happening. Driving here straight from work, I decided to take advantage of unseasonably warm early May temperatures to spend some rare alone time by the pool. I haven’t talked to Jet yet; he was finishing his evening workout when I arrived. I saw him through the kitchen window a few minutes ago, so he’s probably making himself a smoothie and on his way out to sit with me. In the meantime, I study Internet stories and images of him, gathering ammunition for the reassurances I’ll no doubt have to regularly toss his way if the Chiefs draft Nebraska Heisman finalist, Michael Wilcox, as his backup.
Fortunately, I’m finding plenty of material. The love affair between Jet and the fans is stronger than ever. A winner on and off the field, he’s given the entire city something to cheer about. He’s the franchise quarterback we’ve been craving for a depressingly long time. Even the usually acerbic radio cynics can’t find anything wrong with him. Most importantly, Coach Dick Bauer is his biggest fan.
I participate in these frequent Internet searches to keep my finger on the pulse of public opinion. Their opinions of both Jet and me. They love Jet. Me? Well, it’s overrated to be beloved, right? And it’s not that they hate me; they just don’t know me.
Plus, the person who threatens to take an eligible bachelor or bachelorette off the market is always going to be the target of some mean-spiritedness. For the most part, I don’t take it too seriously. I read the stories, because I want to make sure nothing serious is being said. As long as they’re focusing on my ugly clothes and my average looks, we’re good. The ones who speculate about wedding bells stress me out more, but since most of the speculation is wildly off-target, I brush that off, too.
The back door opens, so I quickly close the tablet and set it on the table next to me. Torzi, sleeping between my feet, raises his head for a second but returns it to his paws when he recognizes his master. Torzi and I have grown closer since the Knox family invasion. I rescued him from the kids more than once, when their version of playing didn’t gel with the Bichon’s more genteel idea of fun.
Striding across the patio, a plastic cup in each hand, Jet offers me the one from his right, and I sniff it, relieved when it smells like run-of-the-mill lemonade. Yesterday, he brought me one of his muscle recovery smoothies. I have no clue what my muscles were supposed to be recovering from (sitting at a desk all day? Driving in rush-hour traffic, perhaps?), but the smoothie was disgusting. I didn’t ask what was in it, because I was afraid the ingredients list might intensify my urge to purge.
After a few sips of my tart beverage, I ask Jet, “Do I want to know what’s in your cup?” when he sets it down in the shade of his chair and whips off his shirt.
“Strawberry, banana, and peanut butter,” he answers, kicking off his sports slides. “Want a sip?”
“No, thanks.”
He laughs. “Fine. They’re not that bad, once you get used to them. You have to learn to block out the taste of the protein powder.”
Before I can retort, he tosses his shirt on his chair and walks to the pool, where he dives in, surfacing a few seconds later past the halfway mark. He rolls onto his back and kicks water toward me, but the splash doesn’t come close to leaving the pool, much less reaching me. He grins, anyway. “You comin’ in, or what?”
“Nah.”
“Suit yourself,” he replies casually, flipping to his belly and transitioning to a lazy freestyle. I watch him for several laps but eventually close my eyes, because studying the muscles in his shoulders and back is working me up. After a few minutes, he climbs the steps to exit the pool, walks straight over to my chair and shakes water droplets over Torzi and me, like an overgrown dog.
Torzi immediately runs to the house. Jet calls after him, “Aw, c’mon! You’re no fun! Man’s best friend, my ass.”
“You’re obnoxious,” I say affectionately.
Crossing to the weather-proof cabinet that holds the towels, he chooses a fluffy red one and pats himself until he’s no longer dripping but still damp. He retakes his seat on his lounge, crosses his ankles, and tilts his head back, closing his eyes. “That felt good.”
“Rough day at the office?” I ask, half-joking.
“My boss is a Dick,” he says, eyes still closed, then smiles, lowers his chin, and looks over at me. “How about you?”
“Spent the day pricing print shops for my Hollywood cut-outs. May have to scale back my plans.” He winces, but I reassure him (and myself) before he goes into fix-it mode, “It’s okay.” Swiftly changing the subject, I say, “What’s the latest gossip? Any off-season shenanigans that haven’t been sniffed out yet by the media?”
Jet thinks about it for a second, as if debating whether to tell me. He squints across the sparkling surface of the pool. “Pete Jay and his wife are getting a divorce.”
“What? No way!”
“Way.” He nods solemnly.
“That’s awful.” Monica wasn’t one of the friendliest wives at the Pro Bowl, so I never got chummy with her, but this may be an explanation for her subdued demeanor. It wasn’t that long ago. Maybe things were already ending between the two of them. “What happened?”
He shrugs and gulps another
