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with me against my
pleas, and I called the police to try to get some help finding him. They found
him in Pennsylvania two hours later.
    The diagnosis was vascular dementia.
    That day when I had flown to Ohio to meet
my family in the hospital, I learned that the man I knew as strong and
determined and successful would slowly wither away into someone who didn’t even
recognize me. It would take a while—maybe five or so years depending on
how quickly it was advancing, the doctor said. But it was inevitable.
    “He’s doing well,” Ryan tells me, and I
fight back the hope that always churns up inside of me when I hear things like
this. I can’t help thinking sometimes that the doctors have made a mistake. But
then another episode happens, and reality stabs me in the gut.
    “He’d really love it if you came to work
for the company, Logan.”
    I roll my eyes childishly at the
statement.
    “It wouldn’t have to be running the show.
But right now, while he still knows what’s going on around him, don’t you think
it would be a good thing?”
    I know what he’s insinuating and I hate
it. I could work for him for a while, until Dad reaches the point when he
doesn’t know who I am anyway. I don’t like thinking about that. “Ask Dylan.”
    Ryan cocks his head. “You know he has no
place at JLS Heartland. Never had any interest. Even Dad knows that.”
    My youngest brother Dylan had been
blessed with enough talent to eclipse any plans my dad had for him at the
company. He went to college on a full wrestling scholarship, spent every free
moment training, and ended up with a medal at the Olympics. So while I was
deployed to third world countries armed with an HK416 and wondering if I’d come
home in a body bag, Dylan was raking in millions from cereal and shaving endorsements.
    I’m happy with my choices in life, don’t
get me wrong. But Dylan’s a pretty hard guy to relate to.
    “Besides,” Ryan adds, “he’s busy now. Got
another gym opening up in LA.”
    And I’m not busy is what he’s
really saying, just renovating a handful of little townhomes. In this family,
that classifies more as a hobby than a job.
    “I’d go crazy locked in an office all
day, Ryan. Besides, I’ve only started renovating my townhomes. You’d know that
if you ever stopped by,” I add. Hey, if he’s going to toss a little guilt my
way, I can throw it right back at him.
    I bought a strip of townhomes that were
in foreclosure when I moved here, and am fixing them up one by one. I love the
work. I love taking something that has been neglected and turning it into
something that shines. If I stick around after I sell these ones, I might do it
again. Sadly, there are plenty of foreclosures in our area these days.
    “Sorry. Been meaning to, but I’ve been a
bit chained to my desk now that Dad’s unable to take the lead on projects.”
    My point exactly, I want to say. But I
don’t. I know Ryan enjoys his work to some degree, but I also know there is a trace
of resentment toward me for not stepping up to bat when Dad wanted me in his
company years ago.
    “Just think about it,” he finishes, rising
from the wicker chair and stretching his back as he gazes at the sunset.
    I see the way he looks at the stand of trees
leading up to the creek as he stretches, and it saddens me. I never pictured Ryan
taking over for Dad. Not Ryan, who liked backpacking and hiking and rock
climbing. Looking back at the two of us as we were growing up, I’m a little
surprised that he wasn’t the one who ended up a Navy SEAL rather than me.
    But he has a responsible streak in him a
mile long. And I’m damn grateful our family has him. “I will think about it. Promise.”
And I will. After the townhomes are renovated and sold, I might be looking for
another challenge to fill my time.
    I’m clueless, though, how a mission-driven
guy like me would thrive at JLS Heartland.
    Nodding and giving my shoulder a pat, he
walks back into the house. The silence of the