Page 77 of Taking It To Overtime

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she says, “But Cecilia is awake. As her power of attorney, you should be there when we talk to her about what happened.”

Dad gets to his feet. “That’s probably a good idea. She isn’t usually combative, but today has been a lot of firsts.”

He follows the doctor out, leaving the door ajar, and I lean my weight into Robbie’s chest.

“Do you want me to go or stay?” He asks, the vibrations from his words rumbling against my back.

I want him to stay, I do, “You can go. Your team needs you, doesn’t it? Isn’t today a scrimmage day?” I swallow past the shards of broken glass wedged in my trachea. “Did I ruin that for you?”

He kisses me on the mouth, hair flopping into both of our faces.

“You ruined nothing. Spags has the kids under control.”

“Jack?” I laugh, picturing him and the kids getting into all kinds of shenanigans while the big boss is away. “I bet he’s having the time of his life.”

“He’s worried about you,” Robbie says, “But he’s more mature than I give him credit for.”

The kid’s heart is definitely in the right place.

“I think maybe I should go,” Robbie says. “You and your parents should have this talk, just family. I’ll go down to the lobby and wait for you there.”

My heart clenches at the thought that he wants to go, doesn’t want to stay. And then I stop. Did he once send me away, not because it was easier for him, but because it was to protect me? To benefit me? I can ask this man for what I want. I’m almost positive he’ll give it to me.

“You’re right,” I say. “Just family.” I see the hurt flash through his eyes before he blinks it away. “Please come with me.”

I wonderif there’s a scientific reason that déjà vu always feels shitty. I never get the sense that I’ve been-there, done-that for good things. It’s always those vaguely ominous clouds threatening despair that send me into the past.

That’s how it feels when the back door slides open and Vera steps onto my porch. We’ve been here before. Done this before.

Or maybe it’s not déjà vu at all if it’s an actual memory.

“Your mom said you’d be out here,” she says, bringing us full circle. I try not to flinch.

“My mom isn’t here.” I frown.

Vera laughs, settling onto the swing next to me. “I was teasing you, Robert. We’ve been here before.”

I swallow hard, looking down at my fisted hands. The past isn’t a happy memory. She and I are facing down a ticking clock. There’s no winning in the fight against time.

Vera uses one toe to push the swing back and then draws her legs up. I loosen the muscles in my calves so we can rock together. The chains protest—I doubt anyone uses this much anymore—but I think it’ll hold. Or I don’t want to move, my brain screaming at me to prolong this moment for as long as I can. I’m not about to board a plane to Wisconsin, but she’s headed back to Los Angeles. And I’m not ready.

I don’t think I’ll ever be ready.

I want to ask what she’s doing, here on my back deck, on my porch swing, but I’m afraid of the answer. We agreed to decide together at the end of the week. That doesn’t mean we agreed to keep things going after we both leave.

“So I’m going to go back to LA, tie up some loose ends, put my apartment on the market, and then I’m moving back here.” She looks at me out of the corner of her eye, “I’m sure it won’t be quite that simple, but,” she shrugs, “I was already trying to figure out what comes next and what’s the point of having money if I can’t throw it around to make this transition as easy for Mom as possible.”

“And what do you want next?” I ask. I have to clear the grit out of my voice.

“I’m not entirely sure.” She looks out over my yard, hiking her hip up on the swing until her body is facing mine. “I still have some contracts with different brands, but they’re all international and involve my social media. SoCal not necessary. Maybe I’ll try to branch out into the influencer sphere. Maybe I’ll draw on my savings. Maybe I’ll teach drama, or go back to dance. Mostly, I’m going to spend time with my mom. As much as I can.”

“Is everyone okay?” I stayed with her through the conversation with her mother, holding her to me as tears dripped down her face and sobs wracked her shoulders. I saw them safely back to her parents’ apartment, and then I checked in at the rink. Where Spags had more than come through.

“More tears, but Mom stayed fully lucid. None of us wants to waste time being mad, not when her disease is definitely progressing. With me back I can shoulder some of that responsibility. Even if it’s just the financial portions.”

“You being here will be more than that.”

She smiles, but it’s faint. “I hope so.”

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