If I Could - B. Celeste

Chapter One

Ren

Six hours, of what should have been a four-and-a-half-hour drive, without air conditioning in the summer heat doesn’t bode well for setting a successful mood the rest of the day. And the worst part is things always happen in threes. First the A/C in my relatively new Jeep Wrangler shits the bed, then Google Maps leads me through west bumfuck New York that tacks on an extra hour to my already monotonous drive, and now this. This being the freshly burnt siding of what is supposed to be my new rental house.

Faulty wiring, according to the silver fox fire chief. I’m not sure if it was the long drive, or the heat that made me laugh deliriously until the he gawked at me like he considered calling someone from the psych ward. Probably a combination of the two. Regardless, my gaze wanders from his cautious expression back to the small two-story family home I moved all this way to settle into. The entire right side looks like the food me and my former frat brothers used to cook—blackened and hopeless.

I barely register the faint “sorry” coming from the man in uniform before one of his crew members calls him over for something.

As soon as I blow out a long, much needed breath, I do what I always do in times like these. Think of the positives. For one, if I hadn’t gotten lost, I could have been inside when the fire started. Then, I wouldn’t only be overheated from the lack of A/C, but probably covered in second- and third-degree burns. And that, well, that doesn’t sound like fun.

Another solid thought is the number in my bank account. I have more than enough money to pay for my car to get fixed, a hotel for a few nights while I figure shit out and could probably get my deposit back on the house to put toward something else. It’s not the end of the world. Just like the career-ending prognosis of severe arthritis in my shoulder and elbow wasn’t.

Truthfully, I was relieved at the sound of the doctor’s solemn words the day I got checked out after having too many problems throwing pitches. The only person who seemed torn up about me losing my chances in the MLB—Major League Baseball—was my father. The guy is a total prick, who’s always been obsessed with my ability to pitch a ball like some of the best. An old coach rotated positions back when and put me where I excelled after being on the outfield for years. According to Dad, I was “wasting my potential” out there. In hindsight, all those years “wasted” was saving my arm from worse pain and inevitable surgeries. But I still love him. Breaking the news to him and Mom was difficult, and the dinner I’d done it over got quiet quick when I told them I was going to start applying for coaching gigs around the city and surrounding boroughs. I know his lackluster thoughts on coaching, but I still to this day don’t care what they are. It’s not his life to live.

So, yeah. Day one in Exeter, my new home for the next year, is not going as planned. But it could be worse. I could have been carted away with third-degree burns, dead, or broke and stranded in the middle of nowhere. I’m none of those things. I’m lucky, alive, and content.

One quick internet search later, I find the closest hotel and climb into my Jeep while coming up with a mental to-do list on the drive there. Call Mom to let her know I arrived safely, get in touch with the homeowner—a friendly old man who moved to some retirement village in Florida following his wife’s passing—about a refunded deposit, and then phone my best friend Della to bitch about my day. I should also probably eat since I haven’t had anything besides the stale ass breakfast sandwich I picked up at some seedy gas station early this morning. My stomach has demanded it be fed a handful of times, but all I’ve downed is three bottles of water that also extended my trip by the amount of piss breaks I needed along the way.

Finding a parking spot quickly once I pull into the Hilton, I grab one of my bags and lock up. I don’t know what kind of place Exeter is, but it seems like there shouldn’t be a lot of problems based on the crime rate search Della decided to