Page 47 of Worlds Collide

Thursday afternoon, Rich comes into my place with two bags full of frames that I asked him to go pick up for me, and he does me a solid by mentioning what he’s heard through the grapevine—a.k.a. from Tate.

“CJ’s going to the city with the Darnell’s tomorrow because Mrs. Darnell is doing a surgery in CJ’s old hospital.”

“Weird,” I mumble. Who goes to the place where they just got fired from a week ago? Then again, what the hell do I know? I’ve never had a normal job.

“So maybe you should think about...” Rich hesitates and gives me his seriously judgy up and down look with his nose scrunched up. “I don’t know, going outside?”

“Okay, asshole, message received.”

“Good.” He nods once. “Need anything else today?”

“Nope. Thanks for picking these up, I really appreciate it.”

“Don’t mention it.” He waves a hand at me as he walks to the back door. There’s a path there that leads to his and Tate’s house. “Let me know if you want to go out tomorrow.”

I give him my usual grunt in answer and then get to work on putting pictures in the frames and finding spots for them.

It’s true that I do need to spend some time under the sun, and as I discovered shortly after rehab, playing tennis is the best way to do that. I started out with an instructor to get the hang of it, but soon enough I was going to the court by myself and playing against the machine, which I liked way better.

So I’ll go down to the court and spend my day there, maybe even pack a big lunch too.

Derek came by today to say goodbye since he has an away game this Sunday, in Florida no less, so I’m hoping the whole place will be extra quiet tomorrow. I don’t know what Hawk will be doing all weekend, but I’m not in any hurry to find out.

I’m still pissed at him for inviting CJ to stay over in the first place.

The day isperfect to spend outside. It’s just a little bit cloudy, the perfect amount of wind to make each hit to the ball just a little bit more interesting, and the quiet all around me is only broken by the whirl of my tennis ball machine.

I eat the two club sandwiches I prepared this morning at noon, and wash them down with a whole bottle of water, then jump right back into it.

I love it.

The strain on my muscles, the frustration when I can’t place the ball in the exact spot where I want it, and the triumph when I make a perfect hit.

The way I’m set up right now thanks to my birthday gifts, I feel like I could play forever, and the best part is, I get to only think about hitting the ball over and over.

That is until the machine runs out and I have to pick up all the balls and put them back in, but it’s still the absolute perfect day.

Now that I think about it, I wish I hadn’t scheduled my check-up for those days and had spent my birthday doing this instead.

But then Derek and Hawk would’ve probably come down here and made me hang out with them, which would’ve defeated the whole purpose.

I also wouldn’t have fucked everything up the way I did with CJ.

Or found out what being with him is like, which is something I had been wondering about for way too long.

In any case, what happened happened, and as soon as CJ finds another hospital where he can work, he’ll be out of here and maybe out of California all together. Everything will go back to normal then.

Why does that not make me happy?

It should. It would literally solve all my problems.

It’s five in the afternoon when I dump all the balls into the machine again. I move the machine to a different position so I can practice my forehand, and then nod at it for some strange reason. It’s going to be the last batch of the day because soon enough there won’t be any light out, and I haven’t installed any headlights around the court—something to add to my to-do list.

There was no need, I think, as I walk around the net to get back into place. I crouch into position so I’ll have to run to reach the ball after it bounces, then make sure the machine’s little control is secure in my left wrist band. I click the button to get a ten ball set and release all the air in my lungs before lunging.

I count my breaths in my head, doing what I can to make my response to the ball as instinctual as possible. I want to be able to do this without thinking.

I jog lightly back to the starting position once the set is done, and before I can start another cycle of balls, I hear clapping.

---