Page 13 of Game Plan

“You don’t have any idea, do you?”

“Nope.”

I survey the mess, trying to find something to keep Branch occupied. It’s clear I’m going to have to put these together, or they won’t get done. And if Branch doesn’t stay busy, he’ll try to help, and I’ll wind up killing him.

If I’m going to prison, I’d rather it be for something more exciting and badass than killing a retired, five-eleven wide receiver over DIY furniture.

“We’re going to need room to work,” I say, getting to my feet. I pluck the screwdriver out of his hand before he decides he’s Branch the Builder. “I’m going to figure out what we’re working with. You’re going to pick up the trash.”

He groans.

“Grab a razor blade or a knife and cut the boxes down so they lie flat, then put them in the garage for recycling,” I say. “Then get a couple of lawn and leaf bags and get rid of the packing material.”

Branch stands, wincing as he straightens up. “Fine. But if Layla asks, I built these.”

“Where is she, anyway?” I ask, locating the instruction manuals at the bottom of the hardware mound.

“Poppy’s,” he calls from the kitchen. “I thought that’s where you’d be, considering she was gone for a week.”

“Yeah, well, me fucking too.”

“So why aren’t you?”

I half laugh, shaking my head as I try to put last night into words. “Let’s just say that Poppy’s Poppy-ing.”

“That’s always fun. What’s she up to now?”

I’m not sure how to answer that, so I focus on the project in front of me. All three bookcases are the same, thank fuck, so I begin by creating three piles. One for each piece of furniture.

I was up most of the night thinking about her and our conversation. Granted, I think about her every day, and she’s been on my mind even more lately because I haven’t seen her for a week. But there was no distraction, nothing remotely interesting to keep me from playing our interaction over and over last night.

The woman is chaotic and impulsive, which are two of the things that I like most about her. It’s not unusual to show up at her house to find that she’s painted half of the living room and then quit. Once, she decided at midnight that she had to have a two-thousand-dollar poodle that was six hours away, and there was no talking her out of it. But, as predicted, by the time the sun came up, she’d changed her mind.

But this relationship thing? This is a little much. Even for her.

“Are you going to tell me what she’s up to or not?” Branch asks. “I’m not sure if you’re avoiding the question or if you forgot to answer me.”

I blow out a breath. “I’d answer you if I knew how.”

“That bad, huh?”

“I’ll put it to you like this—we’re no longer fucking.”

Branch flinches, his eyes widening. For the first time in our friendship, I’ve rendered him speechless.

“She decided that I act too much like her boyfriend and need to back things up,” I explain. “And, if we were really together, it would fail.”

“You’re not together? That’s news to me.”

“Yeah, well, you aren’t alone because I thought we were, too.”

I hate that I didn’t see this coming, that I didn’t pick up on the warning signs that she was feeling trapped. I’ve seen them a few times over the years and eased up. Given her space. But no matter how long or how hard I think back over the past few weeks … there was nothing. No signs.

I thought she was happy.

“Did you do something to piss her off?” Branch asks. “Is this like the time she wouldn’t talk to you until you apologized for not taking Layla’s side in an argument between me and your sister?”

“No. It’s interesting because apparently I’m great.” I smirk at Branch. “I mean, I knew that, but she said it, too.”