Jay's Loelife Ch. 23

"A lot of dumb reasons. I was a poor kid from a small town and Kelly made me feel like a million bucks. It was easy to look the other way, for a while. He dangled money and power like a carrot. While I was distracted, he was breaking me in other ways. I was actually in the process of leaving him when he died."

Howzat: Why did you suspect Mike was embezzling?

"It was mostly a gut feeling. After Kelly died, Mike stayed and helped keep everything going. He was really open and explained a lot to me. As time went on, he became less and less open. I had to take his word for most everything. I felt like everything was a secret. I didn't have access to anything, so I had no proof."

FanLit: Did Aido Potato help bring Mike down?

Seamus smiles and pulls a picture up on his phone. It's one-year-old Ninja Aidan wearing black jeans, a black hoodie, and a black beanie that he's trying to pull off his head. "I would say he was most instrumental in bringing Mike down."

Kbois: How much would you charge for pictures of your feet? Would you discount if you and your bf do it together?

Seamus blanches and looks at me. "I don't see how that is relevant."

I burst into laughter. "It's not. I just wanted you to have a taste of my every day DMs. Anyway, Seamus will answer more questions later. We're also going to take everyone on a tour of what his in-laws are trying to take away from him. In the meantime, remember--" I grab Aidan and haul him up to my lap. I hope all the practice pays off. "Can you tell everyone how to live their life?"

Aidan nods excitedly and grabs the phone with both hands, pulling it way too close to his face. A nice booger shot for everyone. "No matter da low wife or da high wife. You wiv the best wife!"

****

Coffee|Bar every morning. Dinner at Cavaliers. Dough Guppies for Aidan's third birthday extravaganza. A walk around the dealership.

"We haven't been able to keep minivans in stock," Seamus says. "We have more special order requests on minivans than any other vehicle."

Jay looks at me knowingly, like it's my fault.

"Seamus is the one who made me drive it." I remind him.

Jay throws his arm around my shoulder. "You're a force to be reckoned with."

****

Seamus saves the best for last. Purple Canary. I've been to more nightclubs than I can count and Seamus' ain't too shabby. It has a whiskey cellar vibe without being old and stuffy. It's classy as fuck.

And the wait staff is cute.

It's not the droves of people filling the club or the dozens of cameras pointed our way, it's Jay looking fly in a purple short-sleeve button up with blue stripes. It compliments his mussed hair, wide shoulders, and his oddly-tan-for-the-season arms. The chinos couldn't hug his monster thighs more beautifully if he tried.

But most of all, he perfectly compliments me and my white short-sleeve button up with owls. I grab Jay's hand and drag him to the floor. "You might know how to dance to the B-52's but do you know how to dance at a club?"

There are two different kinds of dancers: the kind that can dance in front of their family, and the kind who shouldn't.

Watching Jay embrace his ultra-safe, late nineties, and somewhat awkward dad moves, it's obvious he tore up his fair share of dance floors--wedding dance floors. He's that dancer, the one with the flower girl standing on his feet or leading the groomsmen in a hilarious YouTube worthy two step. And he's good, but he's very...

Safe and respectable and so damn adorable.

Even when he wraps his arm around me in a way he probably thinks is crossing the tracks into inappropriate-ville, he's still so innocent. I can't bring myself to muddy him up, not with this many eyes on us.

"This is hot," he whispers in my ear. "I get why people fuck in the bathrooms."

I burst out laughing. One: Jay rarely cusses. Two: "We're not fucking in the bathroom."

"Here? God no, but maybe back at the loft?"

"In Aidan's bathroom? You are kinky."

His face twists. "Forget I said anything."

"No, I think you're on to something. We'd need to move all his bath toys first. They're a tripping hazard."

"Okay, you can stop now."

"Just don't use his towels for clean up."

Jay covers my mouth with his hand, but he's smiling. Fuck. I love him.

We don't have bathroom sex. He does drag me to the back of the club, shoves me against the wall, and makes me regret telling him no on the bathroom sex, though.

We fly back to Seattle the next day with a growing number of people invested in Seamus' legal ordeal. It won't be long before the small laps of public persuasion build into an unstoppable tidal wave.

It feels great to use this power for good.

As I step off the plane, Jay takes my hand. "Did you know I love you?"

I laugh. "Uh, yeah. You've mentioned it a few times."

"You're unlike anyone I've ever met. You amaze me. I'm completely taken by you. I hope there is not one day I have to live on this earth without you."

I stop and pull him against me. "I'd be pretty devastated without you, too."

****

I can't believe football season starts tomorrow. I'm officially contracted with the Seattle Seahawks. Community Media Marketing Manager. Pretty sure it's a made-up title, but I have a generous budget, a media team who will bring my ideas to life, and no one to answer to.

The first game for the Hawks is an away game in Atlanta. I'm taking four lucky people.

The players have strict rules they must abide by during the season, especially when on the road. I thought it would be a lot more adventurous, but everyone goes their separate ways after dinner. Nerves, superstition, traditions...

I don't get to stay with Jay. He's on the floor above us with the rest of the team. I'm in the room between the two couples I'm hosting.

I sit on the side of the king bed inside my fancy smancy suite. The industry is wrecked about Jay's departure. 'It's too soon' and 'he has at least five years left, if not more'. The Seahawks continue to tempt him, afraid another team may be doing the same.

I wonder if Jay is in the room right above me. I contemplate asking him for his room number but he has a roommate. More importantly, he's insistent that he give everything he has to his final season. He wants to go out on top of his game. He wants to be a legend.

I dial Jay's number.

"Hey, how's my Executive Community Manager of the Social--" Jay hesitates. He can never seem to get my title correct. I don't care. I still don't know what his position on the team is. Defensive something-or-other. I know he chases QBs. Lots of hugging.

"Community Media Marketing Manager?"

"Yeah. How's my Community Media Marketing Manager?"

I laugh at the sincere joy in his voice. He loves that I have an official position on his team during his final year. I think he really just loves that I get to travel with the team, even if we keep a professional distance the entire time.

"I'm tired. It's exhausting making sure complete strangers are having a good time," I tell him as I strip down and crawl into bed. "How are you? How are you feeling about suiting up for your last first game?"

"Hmm. It's bittersweet. I'm excited about this season, though. I'm excited about the shot of going all the way again, and to play the best season I can, to finish injury free. I'm ecstatic to do this with you, but I'm even more excited about life after this. Now that it's real, I feel at peace with the decision."

"There are high expectations for your team this year. Talking head says your team has everything it needs to win the Super Bowl again. That would be three in a row."

"Actually, it would only be two in a row, but thanks for the encouragement," he says, his voice full of sarcasm.

I laugh. "Two in a row, three in a row. Does it really matter? You guys have a shot at the Bowl if, God willing, there are no catastrophic injuries."

"Yeah, that is the biggest puzzle piece, but I have a feeling this season will be the best yet."

****

Dreams are funny. When they're good, they're spot on. Jay's last dream season starts out electric.

The other team is introduced to a roaring welcome, but our fans prove that, even at an away game, we can fill the stadium and bring the BOOM. Despite the sea of red and black, the Seahawk fans standout. We're massive. Our numbers keep growing, impeding the home field advantage.

I drink beer and cheer when our section cheers, and boo when our section boos. One entire season dedicated to Jay and I still don't fucking know what's happening.

Half time. We're up by seven, but that doesn't mean shit. Jay is on the jumbotron more than any other player. It's unreal. It's all Jay, all the time. It's not normal even at a home game, let alone an away game. It shows the world the powerhouse that is Jay Petermeyer.

More than once, Jay points to our section--to me--and smacks his chest or something equally show-boaty. Jay on the field is nothing like Jay in person. He's a cocky beast with signature moves that drive the crowds crazy.

With three minutes left in the fourth quarter, the Falcons throw the ball. The camera is on Jay as he jumps in the air and catches the ball. An interception. The crowd begins to go wild.

Then everything goes wrong.

Before his feet touch the ground, two giants in black slam him from both sides. He goes down like concrete dropping from a ten-story building.

The field is swarming with people, but I'm frozen in a tomb of silence. It's so deafening that my ears ring. The voices next to me might as well be a mile away.

Jay's face is pale and lifeless on the jumbotron as the medics look him over.

"Unresponsive." One heart-stopping word the lips of the faceless EMT forms.

Fear ripples through the stadium like a breeze making its way through a field of wheat grass in the summer.

The person next to me is yelling in slow motion, but there's no sound. Go. He points to the field, but I can't move. He pushes me, forcing my feet to unchain from the concrete footing below me.

Everyone around is shouting in silence, demanding security to let me through, but no one listens. I push and shove over and over until finally I break through.

The paramedic squeezes a bulb and Jay's chest rises. I'm not breathing either. I watch his chest. I breathe when they make him breathe. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale.

****

The waiting room is empty. Not a soul in sight. My ears are still ringing.

It's bad.

The commentators on TV are somber. The brutal hit replays in a never-ending loop. I try to squeeze my eyes shut. I can't.

****

Everyone walks past me like I'm not there. And I'm not. They look right through me as if eye contact will make everything disappear in a poof of dust. If information is water, then I'm drowning in a desert.

****

The doctor finally comes to me. I blink. He's right there. I could touch him, maybe, but he feels like an apparition.

I follow him back.

I can't find Jay. He's not here. It's just a pile of blankets and cords and tubes. And a tuft of blonde matted hair.

And a hand that's unmoving and cold against my fingers. Or maybe it's my fingers that are ice. Icy and numb.

If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all.

I'm seven again. Abandoned. Standing alone in an empty house, surrounded by deafening silence. Like a tomb. My ears ring while I wait. For days I watch as cars drive by, but none of them stop for me.

I drop to my knees and press my forehead against the mattress. I grip his hand and wait for his fingers to move against mine.

And wait. And wait.

Dreams are funny. When they're bad, they become your worst nightmare.

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