Today, I reclaim my favorite season. I’m making this year’s first pot of chili, one of the few dishes I do well. I’ve recently returned from an afternoon with Colin and Torzi at the farmer’s market, where I picked up fresh ingredients. I’m excited to cook, then spend the rest of the night relaxing with Jet.
“This is the life, Torzi,” I say down at my supervisor as he waits adorably and patiently for me to drop something delectable. He licks the air, and I add, “When I don’t think too much about it, that is. Let’s face it; not thinking about things is my specialty. So, maybe this will work, after all.”
He lies on the wood floor and rests his chin on his paws.
“You’re right; I need to relax, and talk to Jet more often when things upset me, right? Because if I’d told him what I was worried about, right away, I could have avoided a miserable week. He’s a simple guy. But complicated at the same time. I’ve never been with anyone like that. It’s confusing sometimes.”
I glance over at the dog and see he’s asleep. Or pretending to be.
“Oh. Sorry. Excuse me. Didn’t mean to bore you,” I grumble with a chuckle. “If I’m not feeding you, you’re not interested, huh? I get it. And here I thought we were connecting.”
He dozes through my fake rant.
I finish browning the beef and drain the fat, then dump it and the rest of the ingredients—tomatoes, garlic, onions, jalapeños, beans, tomato sauce, chili powder—into a huge pot on the stove. After stirring everything together, I place the lid on the pot, then turn the burner below it to “low” for a long simmer.
Only after I’ve cleaned up my prep mess do I wander into the living room, where I lounge on the couch and pull my phone from my pocket. True to my word, I deleted the notification settings, but that doesn’t mean I can’t go straight to the usual sites and browse the message boards and comment threads, if I truly wanted (or needed) to seek out the information. Like any addiction, the temptation has lessened the longer I’ve remained strong and kept my mind on other things. I’m not missing out on anything but heartache by staying away from those sadistic sites.
Now I check to see if I’ve missed any calls or texts while I’ve been diligently ignoring the device. When I see that both Rae and Jet have tried to get in touch with me, my smile fades, my mouth dries, and my stomach shrivels. An overwhelming sense of déjà vu grips me. A few weeks ago, before the Bedroom Bowl debacle, having Rae and Jet both text me during the day wouldn’t have been out of the ordinary at all. But this is the first communication I’ve received from Rae since Jet’s injury.
It could be a coincidence that she picked today to reach out to me, and her call came in at roughly the same time as Jet’s, if the communication had occurred around lunchtime. But the time stamp on the calls, while similar, is from not that long ago, which was much later than when everyone would normally stop for a break.
And as I take a closer look at the phone, I notice it’s bursting with missed calls, voicemails and texts, the latest of which, from Jet, simply states an address and a hastily typed:
Meet me here. Bring Torzi
Scrolling through the rest of the texts from earlier doesn’t clarify anything. It’s all a bunch of Wow!s and Are you okay?s and Call mes from Greg, Colin, and my parents.
Hoping the voicemails will explain more and save me from having to resort to Internet sources, I dial into my mailbox, which tells me the first one came through at about three o’clock.
“I take back everything bad I ever said about Jet,” Rae gushes. “Wow. Good luck with the media, though. And heads up, not everyone is as thrilled about what he said as I am. But hot damn! If I wasn’t me, I’d kiss that boy on the mouth. Or maybe not, since I know what he does before games. You should definitely do it for me, though. For women everywhere.”
She pauses.
“And uh, I guess this is sort of an apology. No, a real apology. I’m sorry about what I said to you—and Jet—when the Busch story broke. I wanted to apologize when I brought Jet home after the Miami game. I actually volunteered to take him home for that very reason. But you were so mad at me, and I was tired, and it all went to shit before I knew what was happening. Anyway. You probably hate me, and I get it. But I’m still sorry. Okay, enough of the mushy stuff. I’m making myself want to barf, and your voicemail’s probably about to cut me off. When you see Jet, though, tell him he’s absolutely my favorite man right now. Bye.”
So, Jet did something to make Rae happy. This could be bad. Very, very bad. It’s one of the signs of the Apocalypse.
I suddenly need to pee. And puke.
What I need most, though, is to hear Jet’s voice, and I need him to tell me he didn’t do something stupid. My prayer is finally answered after several inquiring messages from various family members, both mine and his.
His strained voice follows the robot lady’s intro.
“Hey. This is me, having to deliver on my promise already, unfortunately, to give you a heads up when something important happens. I screwed up hardcore.”
Nonononono. That’s the opposite of what I wanted to hear!
“Please don’t be mad at me. I can explain. Maybe. No, I really can’t, but I’m going to have to in about ten minutes. I’m on my way to this place called The Ranch, near the airport, where they send players after we’ve been naughty.” He laughs nervously. “I’ll text you the address. Can you
