Page 17 of The Americana Playbook

The sleep disappears from my eyes. “Fitz…”

“I’m the body,” he says. “The body bringing you cake. Or cakes. I’m in Atlanta. Landed earlier this morning. Have a charity golf thing tomorrow in Buckhead, but I wanted to come today because?—”

“It’s my birthday.”

There’s a soft moment of silence.

“I feel awful about everything. I don’t want you to think I’ve become a big-shot football player and an asshole.”

I smooth out the wrinkles of my duvet. “Who said you were a big-shot football player?” I tease. He doesn’t say anything, and I worry the call dropped. “Fitz? Are you there?”

I’m about to hang up before his voice returns. “Yeah. Sorry. I was just making sure you’d miss me if I was gone.”

I snort even though I walked into that one.

Fitz takes a deep breath. “I asked for a day. Just one. I don’t get down here very often and?—”

“Fine,” I tell him. It’s Sunday, which means I should be heading out to the barn. But that muffler finally kicked the bucket, and until I have the cash for a new one, I’m going nowhere I can’t walk to beyond work for a shift. But I don’t need Fitz cominghere. “Where should I meet you?”

“I have a rental. I’ll pick you up.”

“No.” I insist. “I’ll come to you.”

He sighs. “Parker, I wasn’t kidding about the cakes.” It’s only now that I make out what the background noise is. He must’ve gotten a broken cart at the grocery store. “Text me your address. I’ll see you in an hour and a half. Gotta drop my stuff at the hotel.”

I do and then throw my phone down and sprint to the bathroom. Today, there isn’t time to futz. I brush my teeth while showering, down my coffee after I pull a long-sleeved, fitted white t-shirt over my head, and slip on some dark-washed jeans that are so old they’ve grown unintentionally trendy holes in the knees.

I’m looking for my other black boot when I spot it peeking out from beneath the bed, and I drop to the floor. The leather shoe nudges against something.

It’s not that I forgot the box is under there. I just choose not to think about it as much as possible. Because the moment I do, I can’t not run my fingers across the tin lid and pry it open like I do right now, even though I don’t have time to let my fingers sift through the papers of one part of memory lane I’m so desperate to forget but can’t seem to let go of.

I’m always surprised by the weight of the tin box. But I shouldn’t be. My past is pretty heavy.

It takes a little effort to free the lid. Only papers are inside, mostly torn scraps and napkins, the only things I could get my hands on while at Horizons.

But there’s another thing too.

I lift the folded article I tore from a newspaper in a coffee shop nearly a decade ago, announcing Fitz’s declaring for the League’s draft.

ALL RHODES LEAD TO THE AMERICAN DREAM.

I bring my attention to the shading on Fitz’s face in the black-and-white photo taken so many years ago. But the aging of the paper doesn’t hide the solo dimple on Fitz’s right cheek. I don’t know why I was so relieved to see it still on his face that night at the club. It’s not like you can grow out of a dimple. And though he’s far from the teenage boy I left behind, as a man, Fitz unknowingly was a long, lost time capsule filled with familiarity, warmth, and comfort. Just a minute-long hug and I felthome. I felt like nothing changed, like nothing happened.

It was nice while it lasted, I suppose.

I return the article to the box, catching sight of a chapter of my story written on a napkin I had taken from the cafeteria.

“Dear Fitzy,”I begin to read, my normally easy-to-read writing nearly chicken scratch. But that’s what happens when you write on a napkin. That’s what happens when you write in the dark.“Today I’ve been gone 44 days.”

I won’t read further. I don’t need to. I carry these words and memories with me all the time. And the words on the napkins, the scraps of paper I had to steal, they were never for me anyway. They were meant for the only person in the world who would believe me.

I jump when the doorbell rings and quickly slide the box under my bed. Fitz said he needed an hour. It’s been just over thirty minutes, and not even thirty seconds after the bell rang, it rings again.

I creep to the peephole and then fling myself to the side of the door, trying not to jump when the guy on the other side with the radio wire curling out of his ear knocks.

“No answer, ma’am.”

My lip stings from how hard I bite it.

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