Boot(s)

38 - Boot

Bobby O'Callahan

Peter had been looking for a job for a while now. He was somewhat rehabbed, prepped with his GED and college diploma (thank you, online courses), and ready to feel normal again. He had been looking into coaching gigs and was already gearing up to get his teacher's certification. Every morning he was up before me, coffee mug in one hand, the other scrolling through course catalogs or job listings.

This morning though, he was in his suit. The one I got him for our first date. That was almost a month ago, now.

You couldn't even tell he had a prosthetic. His gray slacks curved around his backside like they were made to, and two navy oxfords were tied tightly on his feet. The light blue button-down I loved hugged his biceps and triceps in places I didn't even know existed. He was bent over his infamous Moleskin notebook, his back to me as he furiously sketched away at something.

My body found his like a magnet. I put a hand on his back, bending down to kiss his cheek. He didn't flinch.

"What's with the suit?" I asked him, sliding around the island to get a better look at him. Still, his pen carved swift lines in the paper. I grabbed myself a cup of coffee, waiting for him to finish. He had a habit of not being able to focus on more than one thing at once, and this task seemed rather important.

He panted when he finally released himself from the Moleskin's vice grip. I took a bite of the toast I had made in the time it took him to notice my presence.

"Bo," he breathed out, like he was quite literally just taking me in. His eyes raked all over my body. His stare had this special way of making me feel like I was the only man he ever saw. "I have an interview this morning."

"That's great!"

"Yeah," he snorted back. "It would have been great to have more than a few hours notice."

"What, they called this morning?"

"Emailed," he winced back a sip of his black coffee. It had probably gone cold. "Got it when I woke up a few hours ago. It's at 10. I'm freaking out."

"Don't. Which one? The Albert Private basketball gig?"

He nodded fiercely. Albert Private was a high school in the district whose assistant women's basketball coach had just been caught with a student. They were looking for a replacement, and fast. Preseason had already started.

"Hey," I leaned over the counter, grabbed the hand that was about to snap his pen in two, then smiled. "You got this." I gave him another light squeeze. "Sergeant."

He smiled. I could see the air deflate from his lungs. "Retired Sergeant," he grumbled. "But yeah. I know I do."

A few hours later, he gave me a call at work. He got the job.

"Now what did I tell you?"

"Yeah, yeah," I could imagine him swatting his hand at me on the other end of the phone. "Now. Where we going for dinner? That Thai place I like? Please?"

I had been battling a gruesome headache since I opened the door to my truck that morning, but I attempted to smile, hoping that it would put a little more passion in my scratchy baritone. "Of course."

He was silent on the other end of the line. "Well, you don't sound very enthused."

Clearly, he reads me like a book.

"Babe, I'm sorry, I'm so proud of you. I want to celebrate. But I've had this migraine all day, I can barely see straight."

"What? A migraine? Where are you? Get home and rest. You should not be operating heavy machinery or power tools or –"

"Pete. I'm fine. I'm at Pop's doing his bathroom tile. I'll take a rest here for a bit, but I have a 4 o'clock call. I'll be fine. Prep your order for takeout. I'll grab it on my way home."

"No, don't worry. Just... just come straight home, okay?"

"Of course."

"I don't like the sound of this, Bo. Be safe."

The line went dead. I pulled the phone away from my ear and closed my eyes. I was in my childhood bedroom, the same blue plaid sheets itching at my forearms and calves that I'd had since I was a kid. I scrunched it up in my hands and screwed my eyes closed tighter.

I had lied a bit, to Pete. I wasn't tiling at dad's. And I already canceled my four o'clock. I was here because I literally couldn't see more than stars in my eyes, and if I was home in this condition Pete would have called the President of the United States for back up. 

He's a soldier. He worries.

"Bobby?" It was Pop, probably poking his head in. "How's that setting in?" He had given me some Aleve or Tylenol about two hours ago.

"It's not," I told him honestly. "I feel like someone's taking a Phillips head to my eye sockets, Pop."

"I think I should call Pete."

"No!" It was the most passion I had mustered since 8 a.m. "No. I was just talking to him. I told him I'd be home by dinner."

Pop took a deep breath in, letting the air flow out his nostrils like he used to before giving me a "talking-to." His feet fell heavily on the carpet, landing next to where my head lay. He roused me, and I popped two more Aleve? Tylenol? without even opening my eyes. I sent a prayer, thanking God today was a good day for Pop.

By 6 I was feeling okay to get up and get home. Pop wasn't really driving these days, so I did the job myself and managed to drag myself through the front door. I was feeling miles better compared to hours ago, but when I walked in Pete still gasped.

"Jesus Christ," he swore a few more times, putting his hands on my shoulders. "You look awful. Can you even eat the Thai? God, I hope so. I got your favorite noodles. The long ones!"

I laughed as he pulled me into his chest. "The long ones? Of course I can." He gripped me tighter.