Touching Down(15)

“I’m a great someone to talk to.” He winked at me and took a sip.

It was just after nine. Cruz had already been here for a couple of hours, just hanging out, playing card games and telling jokes and drinking cheap motel coffee like this was all he wanted to do on his Tuesday night. Cruz was one of the few people in the world I trusted, which was why I’d invited him here tonight.

The television was tuned to a local news channel, but I’d turned down the volume a while ago when I felt confident they’d moved on past the image of the young woman standing outside of her motel room in a bathrobe the morning after Grant Turner had dropped her off.

Cruz rose from the couch to peek through the curtains. “It’s weird how they were all just here, and then they were all just gone.”

“I’ll take weird if it means them leaving and staying away.” I drew my legs beneath me and leaned my head into my hand to get comfortable. I’d survived the day by staying sequestered in the motel room, which was no small thing.

“Think they lost interest?”

My eyes drifted toward the television. “Or they found some other woman Grant was dropping off at another hotel.”

“He should have at least called or texted to let you know he wasn’t coming tonight. You guys had plans to go out.” Cruz turned from the window and leaned into the wall. He’d shown up to hang out in a vest and wool slacks, like GQ could come knocking any moment.

“He was pretty clear earlier this morning with his good-bye. It was one of those final, you’re-dead-to-me kind of farewells.”

“Still—”

“I’m the one who hurt him, Cruz. It was me, not him. He had every right to drive away the way he did this morning, after what I did to him then and what he assumed this morning. It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not fine.” He crossed his arms. “You two need to talk. How’s that going to happen if he doesn’t show up when he says he’s going to?”

My eyes cast down as I remembered the way he’d looked this morning. “He did show up. I didn’t have to ask or anything. He just got in the car and got here. He did show up.”

Cruz waved at where I was spread out on the couch, wearing jeans and a sweater, when I was supposed to be out with Grant, explaining seven years of my life. “And then he left because, go figure, you two seem destined to spend the rest of your lives victim to some serious miscommunications.”

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not fine. You two need to talk. Need to.” Cruz looked me in the eye, not blinking.

“I know. We will. You know Grant. He needs a few days to cool off, then we’ll talk.”

His head fell back against the wall, and he shook it. “He’s flying back to New York tomorrow morning. You know, that big city where he lives and plays football for one of the best teams in the country? Oh, yeah, and then there’s the fact that he’s one of the best players in the country and barely has enough free time to scratch his balls during the season. So how do you expect him to have time to fly back down here to have a chat with you that you two should be having right this very moment?” Cruz had to catch his breath at the end of that, but he never stopped staring me dead in the eye.

“I’ll figure something out.”

“You better. Or else I’ll tell him. Because Grant is a good person, Ryan. He deserves to know. And you need to tell him. Soon.”

I sighed, knowing he was right.

“Speaking of . . .” Cruz lifted his chin at the television before wandering over and dialing up the volume.

I heard his voice before I saw his face. Grant was on the television, giving an interview to a roomful of reporters. A caption at the bottom of the screen said it had been recorded earlier and that it was an impromptu interview he’d surprised the local press with.

He’d changed from his inside-out shirt into a long-sleeve Henley and had on a New York Storm hat. The press asked various questions about his season and how he was feeling coming off a torn ACL from last season, but not a single question circled around the woman he’d dropped off at The Starlight Motel the night before. Not one. Which was not a coincidence, since I recognized a good handful of those reporters from earlier this morning, waving their damn mics in my face.

“Well, I guess that explains what the mass exodus was about.” Cruz crashed onto the couch beside me and nudged me.

“I guess it does.”

A reporter had just asked him how it felt to be the best tight end in the pros today when someone pounded on the front door.

Cruz’s head whipped in my direction. “Are you expecting anyone?”