Page 52 of The Incredible Ordinary

“I’m serious.” I lean forward. “We’ll do it. You and me. Whenever you’re ready.”

He still doesn’t believe me, but I let it go for now. Actions speak louder than words.

“You’ve traveled a lot?” he asks, then shakes his head and lets out a self-deprecating laugh. “A professional tennis player. You’ve probably been everywhere.”

“Sure. It’s been…”

I’m halfway prepared to launch into my usual prepared remarks about being blessed and throw in some highlights about the most memorable moments, but suddenly, I can’t seem to think of any.

I’ve been to places. I’ve seen things.

There’s no shine on it.

When I used to play it was all about tennis. I had a goal in mind, and I approached it with cold calculation. There was never much time to appreciate the surroundings, and my mind was occupied anyway.

Since I retired, I’ve been jumping around from country to country and city to city with all the time in the world on my hands and the freedom to do whatever I want. I’ve been whitewater rafting in Chile and surfing in Tahiti. I’ve been scuba diving in Australia, skydiving in New Zealand, and skiing in France.

My mountain bike is still somewhere in Italy, in the spare room of a friend of a friend of a friend.

I’ve spent the last few years chasing an adrenaline rush that never seems to fulfill me.

I blink at the thought and clench my jaw.

That’s not true though, is it?

No.

No, it’s not.

My life is fucking great. Or at least it was a few months ago. Whatever this here is? It’s a detour that’ll end sooner rather than later, and then I can finally get my freedom back.

Because this?

This isn’t me.

“It’s great,” I say. “I love traveling. Staying in one place for too long makes me anxious.”

Jordan tilts his head to the side and studies me, and I get the uncomfortable feeling that he sees more than I necessarily want to show. But he just sends me a small smile, takes the pan, and slides it into the oven. Then he turns around and leans on the top of the kitchen island.

“Done. Now all we have to do is wait. It’s still warm enough outside. Want to go sit on the patio?”

“Yes.” I’m thankful about the change of topic and relieved that I don’t have to ponder the state of my life and the choices I’ve been making.

He grabs two bottles of beer from the fridge and hands me one, then he pushes the sliding door fully open, and we step outside. The sun is setting already, and the air is cool but not cold.

We settle in on the dark brown wicker chairs, and Jordan kicks his feet up on the one opposite him.

“You have a backyard in the middle of New York City,” I say.

“Backyard is generous.” Jordan takes a sip of his beer and looks around. “It’s a bit of a mess. No one’s done anything with it in years.”

“I like the wild look.”

“That’s a nice way to say ‘in serious need of maintenance.’ From time to time the neighbors complain that we’re making the neighborhood look bad.”

“You give the neighborhood character.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling them. Although I’m not doing it to be nice like you. I’m just too lazy to do anything about the mess and need an excuse.”