“Quinn, call me back!”
Toren tossed his cell phone onto his passenger seat and gripped his steering wheel like he was choking Letto in a rematch. He had to talk to Quinn, get someone other than Eden or Coach to referee the most insane decision of his life. How ironic that the one person he wanted to get counsel from more than anyone else was the woman who still had his whole heart and was in the process of shattering it forever.
He glanced at his speedometer. Sixty. In a forty. Not good. He slowed, and just as he was about to pick up his phone and try Quinn again, his cell rang. Quinn. Yes. Maybe God really did like him.
“I need your counsel on how to make an impossible choice.”
“Talk to me.”
“Where are you?”
“Having lunch.”
“Where?”
“At Sassy’s.” Quinn chuckled. “Where else?”
“I’ll be there in seven minutes.”
“Are you kidding me?” Quinn smacked his palms on the table. “Why would you even consider not going?”
“You don’t get it. My time is this Saturday. Eden says—”
“No, your time is not this Saturday. It’s this Sunday. Under the Florida sky. You getting your dream back. You getting your destiny back.”
“I trust this woman. She—”
“I get it, Toren.”
“No. You don’t.”
“Yeah, I do. We all have a dark side. Even me. And you want to destroy this imaginary Hyde person dark side of you. Good. Way to go. You call him Hyde, I call him your temper, whatever, huh?”
Toren blew out a sigh.
“You do this, you’ll be able to get control of your temper while you’re figuring out the other thing. That’s good, right? This is your answer, Tor! The outlet! You go down there, hammer some guys, you’re back to being you. The old you. But not the old you, because, whatever that Center place did for you, you have control of your temper most of the time, right? A flare-up now and then is about it. So this is perfect. Now you’re gonna get that outlet for the little flare-ups and be right back where you belong.”
The idea struck Toren like he’d been blindsided by a pulling guard. Quinn was right. If he could get back on the field, hit some people, he could get control.
“I don’t know.”
“I do. So do you. I can see it in your eyes.”
“I get control for a time. Maybe. But think.” Toren slapped his chest with both hands. “This thing is aging. Fast. Even if I make the team, I can’t play forever. Three seasons, maybe four if I’m extremely lucky.”
“Don’t worry. You don’t have forever. You don’t even have six months. You have three months before you have to go to court and the divorce sails through whether you want it to or not. Then she gets a ring from this other guy welded to her finger. I’m not saying you don’t come back and do your swami guru lady thing next week, but right now? You don’t know when your temper is going to explode, do you? Do you have any control over it? No. So get it under control long enough to figure out how to get it under control forever, or time to do the rest of this octagonal training or whatever it is . . . Are you tracking with me?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m just saying, this octagon thing sounds like it’s been around for a long time and will probably be around for a long time, but this shot with Coach? It’s going bye-bye unless you jump on it now, and it ain’t ever coming back.”
Four days later, late on Friday morning, Toren cruised down 405 on the way to Sea-Tac Airport and tried to choose a winner in the debate going on inside his head. Call Eden? Or just not show and explain things to her when he got back from Florida? The right choice was to call her. But he didn’t need that battle right now, her telling him he needed to come to Friday Harbor instead. Yes, in a perfect world he’d be there. But Quinn was right. Odds were pretty high that the octagon wasn’t going anywhere, and neither was Eden. It wasn’t as if she’d refuse to let him come see her even if he was a few days late.
As he pulled into the airport parking garage twenty minutes later, there was still no clear victor. He shut off his engine and stared at his phone. Call. Don’t call. Call. Don’t call. Wasn’t there a middle ground? Yes, there was. And for the moment, it was the best choice. He’d call her tomorrow, when there was no going back. For the moment, he’d make it short and sweet.
Toren picked up his phone and pulled up her number.
Eden, this is Toren. Something’s come up that I have to do this weekend. No choice. I’ll call you tomorrow to explain.
By the time he’d checked his bags and sat at gate N17, waiting for Alaska Airlines to wing him to Miami, the little voice inside him had sung the same refrain at least ten times: he’d taken the coward’s way out. If he knew with conviction he was doing the right thing going to Florida, he’d have no problem talking to Eden about it on the phone.
“Shut up!”
The elderly man two seats down raised his eyebrows and scooted a few inches away.
“No, sorry, I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to myself . . . I . . .”
The man returned to his book without glancing up at Toren. Toren glanced at his watch. The plane was supposed to start boarding in five minutes. Too long. Once he got in the air, the struggle would be behind him. The choice made. But the next half hour wouldn’t be easy.
Ten minutes later he was settled into his seat, watching the other passengers board, willing them to move faster. Just as what looked like the final stragglers boarded, his cell phone buzzed but he didn’t look. He knew. A text message, had to be. From Eden, telling him the mistake he was making. But whose life was it? Hers, or his?
Toren fought the urge to look until the flight attendants finished their safety routine, then he pulled up the text. He read it. Looked at the picture that came with it. Once. Twice. Three times. Heat shot through him and he unbuckled his seat belt.
“I have to get off the plane,” Toren said to the flight attendant standing near the cockpit door.
“What, sir?” The attendant leaned forward, a frown on her face.
“I have to get off. I can’t take this flight.”
“Sir, I’m sorry, we’ve already closed the cabin door and been cleared for takeoff.”
“I’m the one who’s sorry to put you through this trouble, but I absolutely have to get off.”
As Toren strode back through the concourse ten minutes later, he studied the text again and again. It wasn’t from Eden. Not from Coach, or Quinn, or Sloane.
It was from his daughter. It was from Callie.