Page 97 of Fumbling for Perfection

“Wow. Walker took a hit with that play. Let’s see what went wrong.” They cut from his face and show the replay over and over again from multiple angles. “It looks like the pylon went through his face mask and busted his face.”

They keep replaying his touchdown when all I want to see is Walker. The station goes to a commercial break, and I stand in place, waiting for an update on him. When the game is back on, with only ten seconds left, they show Boston missing the extra point, then kicking the ball to North Carolina who runs it back for a touchdown.

I don’t even care about losing the game now. I just need to know how Walker is doing. The announcers act as if they don’t even care about him, and focus only on the outcome of the stupid game. When North Carolina nails the extra point and finishes the game off with a win, they cut to the cheering crowd.

There’s no more footage of Walker, just of the winning team. My heart is lodged in my throat and worried about him.

I send him a text, knowing he won’t see it until later when he’s on the plane. He mentioned a late-night flight back and that he probably wouldn’t make it back home until two in the morning.

Turning off the television and the lights, I go to my bed and toss and turn for over an hour. I check my phone and social media accounts for any update on Walker, but none is given. I send him another text asking him to write back no matter the time.

When it’s two in the morning and I still haven’t fallen asleep, I don’t overthink my actions and shove my feet into sneakers, grab my keys, and drive over to his new apartment. I haven’t been there before, but Jackson gave me his address weeks ago, not-so-subtly hinting that Walker would love it if I came by sometime.

I guess middle of the night calls aresometime. It’s hard to find an open parking garage this late at night, but I find one a block from his building. Racewalking down the vacated streets of Boston, I run up the stairs to his building and am greeted in the lobby by a doorman.

He stands behind a desk and greets me with a warm smile. “Good evening, ma’am. How can I help you?”

“I’m here to see Walker Bankes.”

“Is he expecting you?”

“I texted him.”

The man does a quick appraisal of my outfit. “Hm.” He taps the keys on his computer. “Your name?”

“Riley.”

“Last?”

“Yes.”

“Riley is your last name?” He eyes me questioningly.

“Margaret Riley, but I go by Riley.” I can see why he’s skeptical of me. I’m wearing my sweatpants that have a salsa stain on my right thigh, Walker’s jersey with a trail of toothpaste drool down the front, and a messy bun. I look like I just rolled out of bed and took a spin through a dumpster.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Riley, but you’re not on his guest list for the evening.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, he wasn’t planning on me coming by tonight but I’m a...friend.”

“I see.”

Damn. I feel like a stalker fan. I can only imagine how many crazy women pretend they’re afriendof his and lurk by his apartment. I suddenly feel territorial and jealous.

“He’s probably not back from his game yet. I’ll just wait here.” I sit on the bench across from the security desk and lean against the wall.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Riley, but you’ll have to wait outside the building.”

I glance out the glass doors to the cold, dark night. Walker should be here soon. It won’t be long. I can wait outside.

“Okay. Thank you.” I usher out of the lobby and sit on the front stoop.

A few minutes later, another security officer stops by. “Excuse me, ma’am, but you can’t stay here.”

“I’m waiting for someone.”

“I’m sure you are, but you can’t wait here.”

I stand and fold my arms across my middle to ward off the chill in the air. I rushed over here and hadn’t thought of bringing a coat. “I’m waiting for Walker Bankes. He should be back any minute.”

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