Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Our bus drives through the village and pulls up to the complex. We shuffle off one by one to a crowd of rabid fans. Some of them are spectators for the Games, some are other athletes. It’s a tricky ordeal with all the competitors in one place. Most of the young ones lead relatively normal lives outside of the Olympic Games. Other than the few standout stars, no one really experiences the level of celebrity that I do.
“Ben Castillo!”
“Can I get an autograph?!”
“A picture? Please?! Oh my god.”
A camera is thrust in front of my face before a cluster of security guards rush forward and push the crowd back to let me and the rest of the team pass.
I’m not usually a dick, but I can’t drag my gaze up off the ground. I can’t interact with fans right now. I walk straight into the complex, ignore the fact that everyone is still looking at us, and let security lead me to the main bank of elevators. There’s a whole security team surrounding us now, and I will the elevator to hurry the fuck up.
I imagine Raelynn here in the middle of this mess, and it makes me feel even worse. I clutch the note tighter in my hand, wishing I’d thought to stow it someplace safe before getting off the plane. Even though I saved the number in my phone, I want to preserve her handwriting.
“Ben!” someone shouts. “Dude! Just one picture! PLEASE!”
The elevator dings and security ushers me inside quickly. I don’t release a breath until the doors glide shut and I’m away from the crowd.
“From now on, we’ll enter through the back entrance,” the head of the security detail informs me.
I nod and look away.
I realize the entire Olympic Games will be lost on someone like me. I’ve been here before, and any modicum of excitement I felt about defending our Olympic title is dead now. I’ll attend practices, turn it on when I hit the court, stand up on that podium, and hold up my gold medal for the flashing cameras. I’ll attend the required press conferences, host the scheduled Nike-branded luncheon for the release of my sneakers, and I’ll do it all without a single complaint. But here, in this tiny apartment, reality will hit me so hard it feels like I might double over from the weight of it.
Inside our room, I toss my bag on the bed, and Anthony follows suit.
“I’m going to go check out the food situation,” he tells me, leaving without asking if I want to go with him.
I sit down on the edge of the bed, look at the bleak decor, and then slowly unfold my hand. The note is moist on the edges. Some of the ink has run. I flatten it out on the nightstand and grab for my phone, confirming I have the right number saved. Then, before I can think better of it, I press call.
I hold the phone up to my ear with bated breath. It rings over and over, and it feels like a dagger is slowly sinking into my gut.
Then, finally, a guy picks up. “Hello?”
I frown in confusion. “Oh…sorry. Is this Raelynn’s phone?”
“No, man. I think you have the wrong number.”
His voice fades out at the end and I can tell he’s taken the phone away from his ear, about to hang up.
“Hey wait.” I read him the number on the note.
“Yeah, that’s my number,” he says, growing impatient. “I think you got it by mistake.”
Then he hangs up and I stare down at the numbers I memorized that are now utterly useless.
Raelynn gave Lele a wrong phone number, maybe by accident, but most likely on purpose.
Just to be sure, I call it once more, being sure to dial every number with careful attention to detail. The same guy answers and tells me to fuck off.
Desperate now, I open the internet browser on my phone and type in Dale’s Diner in Pine Hill. There’s no website, but I find its Google Maps landing page. There are three reviews alongside an address. Under that, it asks if I own this business and want to add a phone number and operating hours.
I try to think back and determine if I ever saw Raelynn answer a phone while she was working.
No. Fuck.
How can a place exist today without a phone number?
I’m starting to feel anxiety creep up my neck. My hands are shaking. My chest burns with every breath. It’s fine. I have money to burn. Resources at my disposal. I’ll ask my assistant to look into her. Hire a private investigator if needed.
Then I remember.
The nursing home.
Yes.
I search the name on Google and there’s a number listed on their website. Thank god. I dial it and my heart pounds while I wait for someone to answer. Then—like I’ve been doused in frigid water—I realize what I’m doing with aching clarity.