We haven’t had a real conversation since Sunday night. We also haven’t had any sort of disagreement, which is something. And last night after the Warriors won their third consecutive game, Brook even seemed up for a private celebration at home. It hadn’t taken long, but it was thoroughly satisfying. That was another first since last weekend.
Check me out. I’m turning into a regular housewife. I’m keeping a list of complaints about my partner. He’s too busy for me. He works too hard. He doesn’t want to talk to me. We almost never have sex. He wants me to wait for him to watch the Monday and Thursday night football games on a delay, but by the time he gets home neither of us have energy to start the DVR. I need to stop keeping score. If I turn our relationship into a game, there’s no way either of us will win.
With that in mind, I order myself to put on a brighter smile when Amelia and the girls pick me up to spend the day in Nebraska City. The small town located about forty-five minutes away from Lincoln is home to the annual Applejack Festival. I’ve never been, but Amelia assures me it’s a lot of fun. A whole day devoted to apple picking, apple wine, apple donuts, apple cider, apple slush, and apple butter does sound promising.
What isn’t as promising is how I’ll be able to keep from telling her about the top three engagement ring contenders Wade and I picked out online while we were browsing during lunch breaks the past two days. I’m keeping a lot of secrets these days.
Marley and Ellery are practically bouncing in the backseat of the car when I slide into the passenger seat.
“You’ll have to excuse the peanut gallery,” Amelia apologizes, exasperation written clearly across her face. “The girls have been up since six asking when we could hit the road.”
“We don’t want to miss the parade,” Marley says. “We have to get a good spot so we can get candy.”
“The parade isn’t until this afternoon,” Amelia explains. “That’s hours away.”
“But we have to go pick our apples first.”
“And eat donuts,” Ellery adds. “And play the games and go on the rides.”
“See what I mean?” Amelia shakes her head. “I hope you didn’t have your heart set on doing any one thing, because I’m pretty sure we don’t have much of a choice in our itinerary.”
“That’s okay. I’m just glad to be along for the ride.” Maybe after all the worries nagging my mind this week, a day of mindless wandering is just the distraction I need. “As long as we leave Nebraska City with apples, I’m good.”
“Then get ready for a day of fun. Right, girls?” Amelia calls over her shoulder.
This sends Marley and Ellery into a frenzy of storytelling about their favorite parts from last year’s festival. It’s enough of a mental struggle to keep up with them that it’s impossible for me to think about much of anything else. Perfect.
I NEVER WOULD HAVE guessed it was possible, but even with my affinity for fall and apples, even I’m a little funned out by the time the last marching band passes us in the parade.
“Fourteen,” Amelia says. “I counted fourteen bands.”
“You’re probably right.” I take another swig of apple cider, even as my stomach protests. “I lost track after eight.”
“How can there be that many bands in this part of the state?” she asks. “Not that they weren’t great. The middle school students were especially good. I doubt I would’ve been able to walk and play at the same time when I was their age.”
“We never marched until high school back home.” And playing the clarinet while marching had been a challenge.
“I dropped out of band after seventh grade.” Amelia wrinkles her nose. “There were too many flutes, and I wasn’t good enough to compete.”
“That competitive nature must be in your DNA. Which one of your parents do you and Brook get it from?”
Amelia laughs. “Believe it or not, I’d say our mom.”
“No way.”
She nods. “Dad might strike you as the competitive type, but he’s more of a team player. Brook gets that from him. The team gene must have missed me.”
“Brook probably took a lot of it.” There aren’t many people who care as much as he does about the team as a whole. I’d like to think I’m a team player, but anyone stacked up next to Brook comes off looking pretty self-involved. “So you have to tell me, how does your mom show her competitive streak? Bake-offs at the Methodist church? Poker night with the teachers from her school? Drag racing on the weekends?”
“Something like that.” Amelia wiggles her eyebrows. “Take my advice, if she ever brings up having a family game night, just say no.”
“Do you doubt my ability to keep up with the MacLaughlins? Because I’m a pretty fierce competitor.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll be fine. I just worry about Brook.” She checks on the girls who have both fallen asleep in the wagon we’re taking turns pulling. “It would break his heart if Mom scared you off by getting into a brawl over Monopoly or Chutes and Ladders.”
“A brawl over Chutes and Ladders? Now that’s something I have to see.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you . . . And remember, Brook only got half of Mom’s competitive streak, so you don’t have to worry too much.” She clears her throat and casts a sideways glance my way. “Speaking of worrying about my brother . . .”
I play dumb, because this is one line of conversation I’d rather not get into with Amelia again. It somehow feels disloyal to give any hint I might be less than thrilled with everything going on in our world. At the same time, no one probably understands Brook better than his little sister. She might be able to point me in the right direction on how to proceed with him.
“He’s doing okay with everything,” I say at last. “He seems more tired, but he’s doing twice—maybe even three times—as much work as he was before.”
“But . . .”
“But he won’t talk to me about it. He’s doing the macho suffer in silence bit. Not that he’s suffering,” I add hurriedly, already giving away more than I’d intended. “I just . . . I don’t know what to do to help.”
“And you don’t like not having a clear plan?”
Maybe Brook isn’t the only person his sister knows best. “Exactly.”
“So why don’t you do something about it?”
My eyes narrow. “I would if I had a plan.”
Thus far my attempts at being helpful have meant playing hostess and creating a musical playlist that had a lukewarm—tepid even—response. I seem to help Brook best by keeping my mouth shut and taking care of myself.
“Why don’t you try surprising him with something?” Amelia suggests. “Like, take him out bowling or get tickets to a concert.”
“That does sound like fun, but . . .”
“What?”
“He’s so busy—”
“He’s never too busy to want to spend time with you,” Amelia assures me. “You might have to make it a Saturday night activity, but I’m sure you can come up with something.”
I’m not so sure about that idea, but I keep my reservations to myself. Amelia seems so hopeful, and I don’t want to let her down. I add extra cheer to my voice. “Where is this walking trail the girls want to go on?”
In response, Amelia leads me through the town center toward a small forest. For now, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other—and avoiding any mosquito bites or ticks—is probably the best use of my energy. I can figure out everything else later.
Week Two Recap: North’s Lady Steamrolls the Competition
No surprises, North’s Lady posted another win this week.
Once again, Todd Northwood had a banner game, finishing the week as the highest-scoring quarterback in the league.
He’s not the only hero. It’s not often we make commentary about kickers, but this is worth noting. Drew Pruitt—a mid-level kicker North’s Lady snapped up with the final pick in the draft—scored an impressive eighteen points. It’s like divine providence is smiling down on this t
eam when even the lackluster kicker is a complete baller.
North’s Lady has an easy matchup next week against the lowest-ranked team in the league, which means we’ll likely be singing her praises again.
Record: 2-0
Chapter Seven
NOT EVEN THE THRILL of winning a second consecutive week of fantasy football is enough to put me in a good mood on Tuesday morning.
I still haven’t come up with any viable options for how to resolve the problems at work. For the few minutes I believed all of our woes were related to continually pumping out funds to the other locations, the solution seemed pretty obvious. Stop doing it. Make the other franchise spots be more self-sufficient. Though it’s unbelievably harsh to say, let them fend for themselves.
Now that I understand the full extent of the issue, or at least as much of it as Anderson does, I’m at a loss. We are not in charge of our own destiny. We could sell hundreds of brand new cars this month, and it won’t matter. Our future is in the hands of an embittered couple, their lawyers, and a divorce mediator. Our fate will come down to their whim on the day they process the entirety of their assets.
And that makes me angry. Not only because of the lack of control. It’s the reasoning behind it. While it may have taken me a few days longer to get there than it should have, this whole situation is unbelievably sad. The Donaldsons are breaking up after more than thirty years of marriage. Their marriage may not have the warmth of my parents’ or Brook’s mom and dad, but they were a unit. I guess I always figured cold and argumentative had been their thing.
Thirty years of marriage, and now they want to start over. I can’t even imagine what that must be like. Brook and I are coming up on our one-year anniversary, and the thought of everything falling spectacularly apart tomorrow—let alone in thirty years—tears at my heart.
It’s funny, or at least interesting, how quickly someone can become your whole world. When I’m not worrying about work, I’m thinking about Brook. The poor guy is stretched so thin. He doesn’t talk about it, but I can see the stress wearing him down. He needs a break, but there’s no way he can take one. Not with his future riding on every action he takes now. And because he’s part of my future, and his success feels like mine, too, I have to do what I can.
The problem is figuring out what that means. I tried following Amelia’s advice on Saturday night. Hoping to distract him for an hour—or even ten minutes if that’s as long as it took—I went to bed with my hair extra flouncy and tumbling over my shoulders. I wore my Chad Baker jersey and a skimpy pair of panties. I felt ridiculous, but when I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I decided I could live with it if it worked.
Brook had already fallen asleep. Tempting as it was to wake him up—I had product in my hair and new underwear—I let him sleep. He was tired.
So I tried again on Sunday night. This time I wore a new negligee, and I put it on while the night game was still on TV. When I went back into the living room, Brook gave me a friendly grin then turned his attention back to the pile of papers he was grading. I couldn’t very well insist that he drop what he was doing then and take me to bed. People’s grades were relying on his work.
I hadn’t even bothered last night. If I couldn’t get him interested in getting busy on a weekend, there was zero chance of me scoring on a weeknight.
And so it’s with all this pent-up frustration and worry raging through my mind that I step into my office after lunch to find J.J. leaning against my desk. Sheesh. I should start charging these guys rent for as much time as they’re spending in my office. I realize it’s a Tuesday afternoon, but doesn’t he have cars to sell or cold calls to make?
At least with J.J., I don’t have to be overly pleasant. “What do you want?”
“I want to make a trade proposal.”
“You can save your breath. I’m not open for negotiations.”
A frown settles on his face. “You haven’t even heard my proposal.”
“I don’t need to. I’m happy with the team I have.”
“That’s what you think.”
I purse my lips and count one, two, three, four, five before saying, with only a hint of irritation, “I only think I’m happy?”
“That’s right.” Then he has the poor grace to smirk like a smug punk.
“Okay,” I keep my voice calm, like I’m speaking to a small child, which is basically the case. “I hear what you’re saying, but . . .” You’re a complete asshat who doesn’t get an opinion on my team. Or at least not one I want. “Are you suggesting you might have a player on your team that I might like better on my team? In exchange for someone I drafted, because I wanted them?”
“Exactly. And I’m not leaving this office until you hear me out.”
“Interesting.” I cross the room and slip into my seat. Depending on his answer to my next question, the extra space might be necessary. I don’t want to end up in prison for attempted murder—or first-degree murder if I’m successful. “Since you apparently won’t go back out on the showroom floor to do the job you’re paid—and paid well—to do . . .”
J.J. sighs and rolls his eyes, his fingers tapping on his forearm.
“Unless I ask,” I continue, ignoring his impatience. “So tell me. What is this great trade that will make me happier than I already am?”
“It is an excellent trade. I’m not an idiot like the rest of the people in our league. I don’t propose trades that are worthless. This is one that will benefit you as much as—maybe even more than—me.”
“Aw, that’s nice of you.” I swoop my hand across the desk, inviting him to get on with his pitch. Then I can promptly turn him down and get back to building a spreadsheet for the year’s holiday greeting card list. It’s only September, and our business might cave, but I’m pretending to carry on with business as usual until I’m told otherwise.
Crossing his hands behind his back, J.J. paces across my office. “It’s no secret, you’re my fiercest competitor for this year’s league championship.”
“Really?” I ask, unable to mask my surprise. “That shocks me.”
“Of course.” His forehead crinkles and he turns on his heel to glare at me. “Everyone knows that.”
“Yes, they do,” I agree easily enough, causing him even more bemusement. “I didn’t realize you did, too.”
He drops his shoulders and sighs again. I narrowly avoid laughing. I’ve changed my mind. Maybe this conversation is more fun than reviewing the customer list. Still, it wouldn’t take much for this to sour into unpleasantness. It’s like poking a bear. If I keep poking J.J., he has the potential to bite. He also has the potential to crack me up.
Nostrils flaring, J.J. says coolly, “As the defending champion, the odds are tipped slightly in my favor.”
“For the love of . . . Someone loves himself,” I mutter under my breath. There you go. He turned sour in under ten seconds. “Just get on to the deal. Who do you want and who would I get in exchange?”
Stopping in his tracks, J.J. rests his hands on his hips. “Give me Shawn Woodson and Michael Luck for—”
“Nope,” I cut him off, plastering a smile on my face. “But thanks for considering me a worthy sparring partner in this round.” You piece of crap.
His jaw drops, but clamps shut almost as quickly. J.J., it seems, is at a loss for words. At last.
“Woodson and Luck might not be starting players this week,” I concede. “But there will come a time when I’ll need one or both of them.”
I pause to pull a folder out of my filing cabinet. Not because I need it, but it effectively dismisses him. “And I’ve checked out your team. There’s no one on your bench I want more than either of them. One or two of your starters might be worth the conversation, but . . .”
He sucks in a breath. “You would make me trade a starter for someone on your bench?”
I shrug. “Maybe. But only if it was a player of equal or greater value.”
“Unbe-fucking-lievable.” J.J. stal
ks out of my office with no other remark. He slams the door, and my heart jumps at the noise.
Even as my heartbeat slows back to normal, alone, I finally release the laugh I’ve been fighting to contain. That was more fun than I’d expected. I almost hope he comes up with another trade proposal, so I can say no again.
EVEN THOUGH I LOVE living with Brook, sometimes I miss the house I shared with my brothers.
Not the toilet seats that get left up. (Brook never does this, which basically proves he’s perfect.) Not the constant rock/paper/scissors battles to decide who was stuck with dish duty. (Somehow I lost nine out of ten times. They probably conspired against me.)
I miss spending time with them, just us. We still hang out on Sundays now that they’re in our league. And they come to Brook’s games on Friday nights. It’s not quite the same as ordering a pizza and lounging around in our sweatpants on a random weeknight.
It’s this nostalgia, and admittedly boredom from so many nights of sitting around crocheting with only the cat for company, that prompts me to send the boys a text message inviting them over. I promise them pizza, beer, and some sort of baked treat. They both send record-fast “yes” responses.
I understand my audience well.
After work, I race home to start a batch of chocolate chip cookies and call in a pizza order. Scott is bringing his copy of Willow and Christopher promised to pick up some popcorn. We should be set.
Comfortably dressed in a pair of jeans and one of Brook’s old college sweatshirts, I’m curled up on the couch with Blitz, waiting for them to arrive. I’m out of the seat—and poor Blitz is unceremoniously toppled to the floor—the second I hear the first knock at the door.
“Scott!” I cry out, throwing my arms around my brother, nearly knocking him over in the process. “Thanks for coming over.”
He gives my back two short pats. “Hey. Is everything okay?”
I nod, squeezing him once more before releasing my hold. “I just miss you.”
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