“I’ll have a talk with him. And I’ll do my best to hold him up, no matter what he decides. I’ll make sure he knows how important his success is to you; how much you want it for him. But baby girl, if that man wants to be here, trust me—ain’t no defensive line keeping him away from you.”

  He’s right. And it’s because of what Nat said. I’m a lucky girl. I just wish I felt like one right now.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It’s been eons since I’ve had a Happy Meal.

  “I’m a little excited about the toy. I can’t lie.” I carry my box to a booth near the back corner of the restaurant, the only section with tables and moveable chairs instead of booths. McDonald’s seats can be a bit tight for Reed and me.

  “If we get different ones, maybe we can strike a trade,” Reed laughs out.

  Peyton’s been in surgery for five hours, and I was getting a little stir crazy. Reed was starting to drive Nolan nuts, so she gave him a twenty and told him to buy me dinner. This place is the closest to the hospital on foot.

  “Let’s open them together . . . ready?” Reed props his elbows on the table and pinches the sides of his box while I do the same. I’m sure we look ridiculous to the few patrons in here during this odd hour that’s not quite lunch but definitely not yet dinner.

  “One,” I say.

  “Two,” Reed follows.

  We both shout, “Three,” and pop open the tops of our meal boxes and stare inside like we’re looking down a well.

  “Yellow Hot Wheel. Sports car. Bam!”

  I plunk my tiny race car prize down on the table, and Reed squints as he studies it, his hand still buried in his box. A smirk forms on one side of his mouth, and after a few dramatic seconds, he fishes out his prize and parks it right next to mine.

  “Blue Corvette. No trade.”

  “Ah, man!” I pick up his car and hold it in my palm, admiring it. I pick at the tiny driver’s side door, and it opens.

  “No fair! I think my doors are fused shut,” I say, pushing my inferior mini ride toward him. It rolls about six inches.

  Reed holds it up and turns it slowly, eyeing the detail on the mass-produced toy.

  “What did I get, a Honda? Toyota Camry?” I think it’s just a generic yellow car, to be honest.

  “Nineteen ninety-four Ford Mustang. Fastback. Two-door.” He pulls his lips in tight, then shifts his focus from the car in his palm to me.

  “Trade,” he says, palming it and shifting to his side to push it into the front pocket of his jeans.

  “Hmm, I still think the Vette is cooler,” I say, wheeling my prize back and forth while I lean over my drink and suck Sprite through the straw.

  “That’s ’cause you’re not a car guy. Pops had a car just like this on the lot for years. He refused to sell it,” Reed says, pausing to take a bite from his burger. “He ended up driving it for six years. He took that thing everywhere.”

  Reed smiles through the story, and I can’t help but feel the joy emanating from his memories.

  “I wish I had known him back then or sooner. He seems like a pretty cool character,” I say.

  Reed takes a handful of fries and shoves them in his mouth, brushing the salt from his hands.

  “Ha, character doesn’t do that man justice!” he mumbles through his full mouth. “He’s not so different. Less mobile, but he’s still all there. Mostly. I’m lucky.”

  Lucky. There’s that word again. I’ve been hearing it a lot lately. The doctors have said it dozens of times. Peyton’s parents have used it a lot. Hell, Peyton told me her nurse called her lucky for being with me, which I think is bullshit. It’s the other way around. But seriously, for all this luck being talked about, I don’t feel very lucky.

  “So . . . Cal is next week, yeah? Road game.”

  Reed’s segue into football talk is obvious. I finish my bite, then bunch a napkin in my hand to wipe away the special sauce.

  “I’ll be ready. Just like I’ll be ready this weekend.”

  His knowing smirk probably matches the one I’m wearing.

  “I had to talk to you about it. I promised her I would,” he admits with a shrug.

  “She’s hard to resist.”

  We spend the next few minutes polishing off our tiny meals and slurping down our kid-sized drinks. Reed collects our trash and tosses it into a bin near the kids’ play area. I loved those slides when I was a child. I don’t think they could hold me now.

  “I don’t know about you, but I could really go for a beer right now,” Reed says, plopping back down in his seat as he rubs his eyes and leans his head back.

  “I could go for a few beers, and maybe a week’s worth of sleep,” I say.

  He shakes with his gravely laugh before he sits up straight again, leaning with his elbow propped on our table, his hand covering his mouth and chin. Yeah, I admitted I’m tired. But who wouldn’t be. He stares into my eyes and blinks a few times before dropping his hand.

  “I think I’ll go to the Cal game. I like the drive.” He likes making his opinion known on the sideline.

  “You know, for the head coach of one of the country’s best high school football programs, you’re spending a lot of time away from the field this fall.”

  He nods, his smirk the look of a man who won’t be detoured by my insistence that I am fine—that everything on the field is fine. Probably because it’s not.

  “Coolidge is a well-oiled machine. I’m basically head coach by title, but more of an assistant nowadays. The staff stepped up the last couple of years, and they’ve got this season handled. Besides, I can’t miss my favorite college quarterback.”

  “Which one?” I blurt out fast. I laugh it off as the joke it was meant to be, but Reed meets my stare and doesn’t crack. I shake my head and blink away, muttering, “Kidding.”

  “No, you weren’t.”

  I hold my tongue between my molars, my mouth curved with an irritated smile. An embarrassed smile. An ashamed expression. And the helplessness of this entire season—of Peyton’s situation—levels me all at once. A breathy laugh slips out as a lone tear gets through my guard, and I quickly wipe it away.

  “Son, if you want to see her fight, she needs to see you do the same. That’s how it works when you love someone. You dig in when you’re going through the shit. It’s this relentless battle, and the one thing you know you can count on is that other half. You aren’t in it alone.”

  “Fuck,” I utter, pinching the bridge of my nose as more tears threaten to fall.

  “Yeah, fucked is right. That’s what this whole situation is. And that’s nobody’s fault. It’s not even Bryce’s fault. This wasn’t his plan from the start. It’s where his chips fell. This is what was left on the board to give him the best shot to keep going. And maybe he will. But you’re the one driving the bus, Wyatt. He’s a mere passenger. Don’t quit and give him the keys.”

  I chew at my lip and let my eyes stare off at the brightly colored slides behind Reed, at the traffic whizzing by out the window, the ambulance bay across the street that has yet to be empty since we’ve been here. Everyone has their shit they’re going through.

  “Your analogies are really on point today, you know that?” I huff out in a laugh.

  He cracks a wide smile and stands up, offering me a hand.

  “Thank you. Nolan’s not a fan, but I kind of like them. I learned from that character we were talking about earlier. You know, the one who puts on his Wyatt Stone jersey when he puts your game on the TV every Saturday.”

  Reed isn’t making that up. I’ve seen Buck’s jersey. His wife has one, too. They’re all behind me, silently willing me on that field. I’m not big into prayer, but I feel theirs. I feel it extra hard lately.

  I follow Reed out of the restaurant, and just before we reach the crosswalk to head back to the hospital, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the yellow Hot Wheel, handing it to me.

  “Nah, trade’s a trade,” I say, patting my right pocket where the Corvette currently resides. Reed insists I take it, however. So I do.

  “Twice the speed. Two styles. Different gears. A little reminder to use all the tools in your toolbox this weekend, yeah?” He quirks a brow as we step into the intersection.

  “I maybe see why Nolan told you to cool it with the analogies,” I razz.

  “Bahhhhh! No way! That was my best one yet,” he says, his stride long and his step full of energy. He’s heading back into the unknown with fight in his legs, and I think maybe it’s the stuff he isn’t saying that resonates with me most.

  Two more hours pass before the doctor finally pops into the waiting room post-surgery. Reed, Nolan, and I are on our feet in seconds, meeting him halfway across the room. I’m tempted to push past him and rush down the hallway to her bedside, but she’s probably still waking up so I pay attention to what he’s saying.

  “It went very well. I’m really pleased with what we were able to do for her. She’ll be in a lot of pain, which is normal from a procedure like this, but with the right regimen, and her stubbornness, I think we’ll see Peyton on her feet in few weeks.”

  “Oh, that’s—” Nolan chokes up, covering her mouth as her tears finally rush out. She’s been holding a lot in over the past week. She needs this release.

  “That’s amazing, Doctor. Thank you.” Reed pulls Nolan into his side, holding her close as she sniffles and her body quivers.

  “By on her feet, do you mean she’ll be walking next month?” I ask, knowing there are semantics to everything he says.

  He nods at first, but the hesitancy in his eyes makes me wait for his words.

  “Right, so . . . she’ll be able to start therapy. We’ll get her fitted for an exoskeleton for her right leg, and that’s going to take some time for her to get used to. It’s basically like a wearable robot that activates the muscles and helps retrain the brain and nerves how to work together. Balance, however, is something she must find on her own. It can take weeks for some patients. I get that she’s going to want to come out of this running, so we need to work with her to set reasonable expectations. At least at the start.”

  We all exchange glances and nod, and I wonder if Dr. K has seen Peyton’s binder. He may want to add a few more sections and steps. But also, he doesn’t know Peyton the way we do. She removed those steps for a reason.

  “She’s waking up, so if you all want to head up to her room, she’ll be in there shortly.” Dr. K shakes Reed’s hand first, then Nolan folds into him with a hug that he chuckles through. I think he’s probably used to people’s physical relief and gratitude. I’m half-tempted to hug him myself, but I keep it to a firm handshake, though I do cover his hand in both of mine.

  Nolan calls her parents while Reed calls Buck and Rose. I can tell when he’s talking to Ellie, who is just as focused on the fact that we went to McDonald’s as she is her sister’s surgery. I send a text to Whiskey and Tasha, as promised. And then we wait . . . again.

  When they wheel Peyton into her room about thirty minutes later, she’s groggy but clearly anxious. I stand back while her mom helps her get comfortable, letting the nurse hook up her fluids along with that annoying heart monitor. The doctor stops in to give an abbreviated version of what he told us in the waiting room, Peyton’s mouth locked in the sweetest dopey grin. Now’s not the time to tell her this, but she looks the same way after a few too many at Tate’s or the Catwalk.

  The one thing she seems to really cling to from the doctor’s recap, however, is exactly as he warned—that she’ll be on her feet soon. I don’t have the heart to tell her it’s going to probably be months before she does anything remotely close to running. But who the hell am I to tell her that anyway? Who the hell are any of us? If Peyton Johnson wants to run sooner than the world thinks she should—can—then she’s going to. And I am never going to stop her.

  She dozes in and out every few minutes, finally settling into her pillow as her gaze sticks to mine once the room clears out and her parents give us a little time alone. I take her right hand in mine, closing both of my palms around it to feel her pulse and keep her warm. I watch her eyes fight to stay open, her lids growing heavier every time her lashes brush the crests of her cheeks. She finally gives in so I lean over and kiss her softly. Her upper lip quivers against mine, pulling up on one side.

  “I can feel that,” she says, eyes still closed, smile growing.

  “There’s magic in my lips. What can I say?”

  I sit back, ready to watch her for a while, when her right pinky twitches against my palm. My gaze drops to our tethered hands just as her finger moves again, and I nearly leap out of the chair.

  “I can feel that,” she says again, just before falling fully into sleep.

  Suddenly, I think I might be able to run all the way to Western for our game this weekend. All six hundred miles. Then turn around and run right back the moment the clock runs out.

  “I feel it, too,” I whisper.

  I feel it, too.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “I’ll make you a deal, Peyton,” Dr. K says as he leans on the deathtrap walker at the foot of my bed.

  That’s my name for it. Deathtrap Walker. It’s a ridiculous contraption, and I feel like I would have fewer obstacles to contend with if they simply pushed me out of bed and told me to figure it out. This thing is—a lot. It has brakes, for Pete’s sake. Brakes!

  My eyes shift to my father as he stands in the corner of my room near his handiwork. He went out and bought a bigger TV for the game. Ridiculous. But also, atta boy.

  “You should entertain his offer,” my pops says.

  I exhale, and it hurts a little. Everything hurts a little. A lot of things hurt a whole bunch. But the hurt is good. The fact is, I hurt in most places. Not everywhere, but most.

  I level the doc with an impatient expression, my mouth pinched at the corners, my stomach growling finally for real food.

  “What are your terms?”

  “You make it to the end of the hallway and back, and I’ll tell your team to leave you alone until the game is done,” he says.

  Shit. That’s a good deal.

  “Gah!” I groan, pushing the thin blanket from my body and nodding toward Steven, my physical therapy assistant. I swore at him a lot just an hour ago when he made me walk with Death Trap. I’m surprised he came back for more.

  He quirks a brow.

  “Fire her up, Steven,” I say, and my father and Dr. K cheer.

  Steven steadies my right side as my dad steps in at the left, and they secure the harness that takes some of the weight off my right leg while I attempt to walk. I feel like a zombie, dragging half of my body along the tiled floor while people back away to make room for me, not sure which way I’m going to go.

  “Where’s Mom?” I ask, kind of missing her words of encouragement right now. While my dad and Steven tend to root me on and praise me with lots of comments like, “You’re doing so well,” my mom gives it to me like it is.

  Suck it up, sunshine.

  You already made it this far; you have no choice but to go back now. Unless you want to just lie on the floor.

  And my favorite from early this morning, which she directed at my dad when she caught me rolling my eyes at his hyper-positivity.

  I wouldn’t exactly say she’s hauling ass, Reed.

  I’ve never been motivated by soft coaching, and my dad should know that. But I guess this is a special circumstance. It would feel better if everyone talked a little more real, though.

  “She may be picking you up a little something Grandma Rose whipped up,” my dad reveals. My gaze snaps to him, and I can tell by his smirk and the flicker in his eyes that it’s tortilla soup.

  “Now we’re talking,” I say, wrapping my hands around Deathtrap’s handles and pulling myself to my feet as Steven tightens the harness to help me stay upright.

  My arms shake. I adjust my grip and grimace, but nothing I try is going to make this easier. The only remedy for this is time.

  “Let’s do this,” I command, and together, the three of us work our way to my door.

  “Good work,” Steven mutters.

  “No, it’s not,” I grumble.

  Dr. K chuckles behind me, clearly having been warned about my attitude. Little does he know this is simply how I’m built. He could be teaching me a tumbling pass right now on the mats, and I’d find fault with my attempt. I set a high bar for myself, and I’m not going to lower it now. In fact, now it’s higher.

  We get to the doorway, and I shake my head, needing a short break to adjust my grip. My right leg feels as though it’s being dragged along for the ride, and I look down to see if I’m even standing on the ball of my foot or just grazing the floor with the tip of my toe. When I see it anchored flat and centered within a square of the tile, I try to lean into it.

  “I feel like I’m falling.”

  “You have to relearn balance. It’s normal,” the doc says behind me.

  “Define normal,” I huff out in a pissy laugh.

  Nobody answers my request, which is probably for the best.

  I nod that I’m ready, and we begin our route down the hallway. There are fewer nurses standing around, and I’m not sure whether it’s because they’re on rounds and busy or my mom kindly asked them not to. Whatever the reason, I like the lack of an audience. Maybe it’s mental, but it makes me feel stronger, and when I make it to the end of the hallway, I nod my head forward.

  “I want to go all the way around,” I demand.

  “That’s my girl,” my dad says, and I let him have this one because it reminds me of all the times he’s uttered that phrase. I let my mind drift through my past as we push on around the nurses’ station. My first back handspring in the front yard, and my dad’s boastful cheer as if he taught me how to do it himself. The time he took me out to kick field goals on the field in junior high when he was home during the off-season. I doinked two of them. And freshman year, when he insisted I go to his gym with him and learn how to hit a boy hard enough to knock him out.