Following the Rules (The Script Club 1)

My twin bed was traded for a queen-sized one the year I inexplicably grew a foot. Mom replaced my superhero duvet with the now-faded navy and black striped one. She talked about changing this old room into an office or a sewing den, but that hadn’t happened. She dusted my trophies, vacuumed religiously, and even opened the windows to let fresh air in. I teased her about housekeeping for ghosts and told her it wasn’t necessary to keep a space for me after I signed my NFL contract. Now, I was pathetically grateful.

This creaky old house was solid ground beneath my feet. After months of worrying I’d never be the same “me” I was before my concussions, it was comforting to know there was at least one place I was accepted as is. No questions asked. The people who lived here cared about me. Just me. Not my ability to run like the wind or catch a ball on the fly. They knew I liked corny Westerns, baseball cards, and cinnamon gum. They knew I was even-tempered and easygoing. And that when I did blow a fuse, I never stayed angry for long. They also knew I had a soft spot for animals and still mourned our family dog, Stanley, even though he’d been gone for five years.

This was a special place filled with great memories, but at twenty-seven, I thought I’d have moved on a long time ago. For some reason, I kept coming back. I wished I could claim I was just being a good son, but I had a feeling I wasn’t fooling my family. George was right. I was homesick, heartsick, and lost.

I had no idea what came next. If it was time to set my old dreams aside, I was gonna need a sign or a mental Sherpa—something or someone to guide me.

Someone like Topher.

4

Topher

Even amongst the most organized people on the planet, moving day was chaos. We’d agreed to meet at nine a.m., but my friends were a bunch of overachievers. Everyone arrived half an hour early, barking orders and grousing over improperly labeled boxes. It felt like a last-minute mini party—without food.

A few extra friends and family members crowded the hallways, pausing to chat in between schlepping suitcases and grocery bags. Cody and Bobby J helped me lug some clothing, a giant lamp for the living room, and a nightstand from our apartment before they headed to San Francisco for the weekend. I almost took them up on their offer to help me move my desk too, but I wasn’t in a hurry. I liked the idea of splitting my time between the apartment and the house and having another quiet spot to study for a week. Options were a good thing.

I left when Cody and Bobby J did, then swung by my parents’ house to grab a few more things—like my R2-D2 popcorn bucket. I decided to keep my Star Wars waffle maker at my apartment until I was ready to completely move in. You never knew when you’d crave a Death Star waffle, right? It gave me a chance to say hello to Gran and ask my parents to keep a lookout for new internship opportunities for me at JPL.

Of course, they weren’t home.

“Where’d they go?” I furrowed my brow in confusion, casting a searching gaze around the kitchen.

Gran shrugged. “Don’t know. Some fancy astro-psychic is talking about Saturn or neutron stars. On a Saturday. For crying out loud, who in their right mind wakes up early on their day off to sit in a dark room and listen to some old blowhard wag their jaw about astrology? Read your damn horoscope in the newspaper like the rest of us.”

“Astronomy and astrology are not the same thing, Gran,” I said for the millionth time.

“Whatever you say, honey.” She shuffled toward the sliding glass door and pulled it open slowly. I hurried to help her before she spilled coffee on the kitchen floor. She grinned and patted my cheek. “You’re a good boy. Now be a doll and bring my cigarettes outside. I can’t carry everything, Christopher Robin.”

“You’re not supposed to smoke.”

“I’m old. I get to do whatever I want. It’s my bonus for living so damn long. Every day is a birthday. Let me tell ya, your perspective sure changes when you’re my age. I’ve seen folks your parents’ age who cry when they get their first AARP card in the mail. They can’t believe a corporation would have the audacity to offer discounts to celebrate their antiquity. At eighty-fucking-five, I’ll take those discounts and I’ll raise you chocolate cake for breakfast, cigarettes without the window cracked, and a dollop of whiskey in my tea,” she cackled, sauntering through the open glass door. “AARP card, schmarp card.”

I stared after her for a moment, then shook my head and chuckled. Her logic seemed oddly sound albeit a tad crude. But that was Gran for you. She was a self-proclaimed cantankerous old biddy who’d recently lost whatever remained of her notoriously faulty filter.