Page 123 of The Off Limits Captain
By the time the farm comes into view, I have rehearsed six versions of leaving early.
The farm looks the same and not the same at all. The twins meet me at the car and drag me into a dinner loud enough to make my father’s house feel like a museum. I let the noise be noise. I do not collect it for copy.
Over dishes, Susan asks about California, and I give her the plain version: my father’s money, editor pressure, a storysoftened until someone else paid for it. Susan listens, takes the towel from my hands, and says only, “Then write the next one cleaner.”
Later, on the porch, I check my phone once. No message from Ryan. Susan notices.
“Hm,” she says, and refills my tea.
I look out at the fields and do not ask her to solve him.
I sleep in the blue guest room that night and wake once to my phone lighting the nightstand.
Ryan: My mother sent me a picture of you holding pie like a hostage.
I stare at the screen until my pulse becomes embarrassing.
Peyton: Your family has strong opinions about dessert portions.
Ryan: They are not wrong.
I smile into the dark.
Ryan: Are you okay there?
The question is ordinary enough to hurt.
Peyton: Yes.
Ryan: Good.
Three dots appear, vanish, appear again.
Ryan: I wish I knew how to do this better.
I hold the phone with both hands.
There are a dozen smart answers. A dozen guarded ones. I do not choose any of them.
Peyton: Me too.
He does not reply after that.
I set the phone down and listen to the farm settle around me.
For once, the silence does not feel like being left.
***
Ryan’s text comes after a home game that leaves the arena humming long after the final horn.
Ryan: South lot.
No greeting. No explanation. No punctuation that implies he was raised by people who believed in warmth.
I stand at the back of the concourse with my notebook under my arm and three observations I still need to shape into a column before sleep becomes theoretical. My credential is still revoked; I came tonight the way any stranger does, with a ticket and no official reason to be there. I should go home. I should write up Evan’s defensive-zone gamble and pretend I do not know the exact shape of Ryan’s tiredness after a two-goal win that cost him a bruised shoulder, a split lip, and most of his patience.
Instead, I pack my bag.
