by Brea Brown
“They’ve already forgotten about me. They don’t care that I think you’re the sexiest feminist to ever walk the planet.”
He pulls me closer and slides his good hand up my shirt.
“You don’t have work tomorrow.”
“No, but—”
“I was counting on you to take Torzi back to the house in the morning.”
“Am I on your payroll now?”
He nuzzles my neck. “No. Let’s not get that rumor started. But…” He stops his advances, and I struggle to focus on his face. “I thought when you agreed to come out here, you were planning to stay all night, to keep me company.”
“Umm…” I consider adding sexual frustration to my exhaustion and balance it with my desire to stay right here with him, after such a long day.
“You don’t want to drive all that way tonight,” he continues his persuasion. “Plus, the Hummer doesn’t fit in your garage.”
“You’re reaching now.”
“Please, Maura?”
Gaaaaaah! Those damn eyes. That mouth. And that hand. And…
“I don’t want to go.”
“Then don’t!”
“But I don’t think I can stay, either.” This time, more resolutely, I pull away from him, going so far as to stand, and remind him, “Tomorrow’s going to be another long day. You need to get some rest.”
He ignores that argument. “What I need right now, more than anything, is for you to stay here with me. Tonight. All night. Please. I don’t like to be demanding, but I need you.”
I groan. “You’re killing me, man.”
Leaving the bed, he stands in front of me. Keeping his eyes on mine, he reaches down for the hem of my shirt and pulls it over my head. Automatically, I raise my arms so the garment sloughs off, and he tosses it aside, but I ask, “What are you doing?”
He answers me with a well-placed and well-timed, deep kiss, during which he shows off how much he can still do, one-handed, by unhooking my bra.
I break my lips from his with a wet, sucking sound. “Jet. What about…?”
He grins down into my face, breathing heavily. “Being on the DL comes with some advantages.”
Thirty-Two
Disappointment
We’re both up well before the sun the next morning, setting out on the drive to Jet’s to give us plenty of time to eat breakfast together, preferably something other than Lucky Charms. Beau has already been alerted via text message that we’re on the way and hungry. My mouth is watering for the Greek omelet he promised me.
Our mini motorcade makes the trip in record time thanks to the early hour. Neither of us talks until we’re several bites into our meals.
Finally, around a swallow of coffee, I say, “Oh, thank God. I feel human again. I was weak.”
Jet winks at me across the table. “Stale cereal wasn’t very good fuel for last night.”
“Yeah, you better eat up, big boy. You have a rabid media contingent to face today. In a couple of weeks, I can’t wait for you to show everyone your stuff. In sunny San Diego.” I close my eyes and inhale the steam rising from my cup. “It’s going to be amazing.”
He neither confirms nor denies my prediction, so I open my eyes, expecting to see him too busy eating to talk. But he wipes his mouth on his napkin, places it next to his plate, and says, “About San Diego…”
Pushing down my sudden nervousness, I say, “I’ve never been to California before, so that’ll be fun. And Greg, Greg is out of his mind with—”
“Listen. The front office asked me to ask you not to attend the San Diego game.”
I set down my cup with a clang. “Wh… what? I mean, why?”
He frowns and slumps, picking at his napkin and avoiding eye contact with me. “They feel like it’s not a good time.”
“Because I’m a curse, right? A jinx.” As the blood drains from my face, the tears flood my sinuses.
His head snaps up. “No! No!” He hops from his chair and kneels next to mine, like he did three months ago. Only this time, he’s not holding a ring. He grips both of my hands in his good one.
“It’s not about that at all, Maura. I swear.”
I close my eyes, willing myself not to cry. I’ve cried more in the past six months than I have my entire adult life, and I’m sick of it. My emotions have emotions, and they’re all crowded close to the surface 24/7, ready to overflow.
Part of it is plain old exhaustion. I get that. But that’s why this news about San Diego is that much more crushing. My face numbs at the idea of abandoning the weekend I’ve been anticipating for months.
“Then why?”
“They didn’t give me a reason, and with everything that’s happened, I didn’t feel like I had any room to argue.” He presses his finger under my chin, so I lift my head and open my eyes. He looks as miserable as I feel, but that only makes it all seem more hopeless.
“To be honest,” he continues, scratching the side of his nose, “it might be for the best. I’ll probably be nervous about my hand, no matter what. What if I screw up again? What if I can’t grip the ball? What if I have a horrible game? I don’t want you there, seeing that, being embarrassed by me.”
“Never. Never, ever, ever embarrassed by you. I’ll be watching, no matter what. I’d rather be there than at Greg’s. Or, more likely, alone, since Greg will never speak to me again after I tell him we’re not going.”
“Oh, come on. If he blames anyone for this, it’ll be me.”
“I already have the plane tickets! And the hotel reservations. And the rental car reservation. And my vacation time. Everything.”
“There’s still time for you to cancel—reschedule—everything. Pick any other away game, and I’ll—”
“I want this away game, your comeback game, in your home state. I want to wear my Number Fourteen jersey and sit in that luxury box and cheer you on, for everyone to see.”
Looking down, he tells a spot on the floor next to his knee, “I want that, too. I do. But this comes from above. I’m sorry. I hate it. It makes me sick to disappoint you like this. I’ve been dreading it since they asked me to tell you.”
“You’ve been keeping it from me since last night? Since before we…?” I’m too mortified to say the words out loud.
He nods and swallows. “Yes. I’m sorry. Every time I tried to tell you, you’d say something that would remind me how heartbroken you’d be, and I couldn’t make myself say it. It had been such a long, weird, awful day, and neither of us slept worth a damn the night before. I thought it was better to tell you when we were both better rested.”
“Was last night my consolation prize, then? I can’t go to San Diego, but you broke your rule for me instead, thinking a great screw from you would make it all okay?”
He bites the insides of his cheeks and looks toward the ceiling.
I bury my face in my hands. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry. That… That was a horrible thing to say.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not.” I transfer my hands to either side of his face. “I know you’re just as disappointed as I am. But damn it!” A sob hitches in my chest.
“Aw, Maura!”
“It was my birthday present to Greg. For once, I was able to give him something he really wanted. And—”
“Shhh.” He pulls me to him again and rubs my back. After a few minutes, when I’ve calmed a bit, he lets go of me, soaks up my tears with the back of his beige bandage, and says, “Hey. What if Greg can still go? What if we transfer your ticket to your dad? It sucks for you to miss out, but it’s better than a total loss, right?”
I sniffle. “Can we? That sounds like a big, complicated mess.”
“I’ll take care of everything, if that’s what you want to do.”
“And you won’t be distracted or nervous if my brother and dad are there?”
He laughs. “No. I probably won’t think about them at all. No offense.”
“None taken.”
“So?”
I’m not the only one not getting my way here. Jet would rather his injury never happened. He’d rather Keaton had never orchestrated the scheme that’s caused such a distraction and led to his own heated comments. But wishing all of that away won’t make it disappear.
We might like to downplay this life and say, “It’s only a game,” but the amount of money at stake every week is eye-watering. It’s easy to become blasé about that and say, “It’s only money,” but it’s an industry like any other, and if Jet doesn’t want to sacrifice those aspects of his life necessary to participate, there are others out there, like Michael Wilcox, waiting for their chances.
That doesn’t make it any easier, however, for me to give my blessing for someone else to have my glorious weekend. Nevertheless, I finally nod and say, “Do what you need to do so Greg can still have his birthday present. I’ll be okay.”
I’m jerked forward in my chair as Jet pulls me into a huge hug I’m not expecting. More for balance than anything, I return his embrace, wrapping my arms around his shoulders and burying my nose in his neck. He still smells like the air outside The Ranch, dewy and woodsy and cool, with a hint of leaf smoke.
His hand on the back of my head, he murmurs, “You’re amazing. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
I pull my head back slightly, so I can say, “There will be plenty of other games.”
He pauses, then reminds me, “This is the only time we’re going to San Diego this season, though.”
Pushing myself back but still perched on the edge of my chair, leaning on him for support, I search his eyes and say, not so confidently, “But we’ll have lots of other seasons, right?”
His face relaxes into a wide grin, his eyes sparkling. Barely above a whisper, he confirms, “Yes. Absolutely.”
After Jet leaves, I spend the morning catching up on some sleep and updating my parents on the latest. A conversation with Colin will have to wait until later. And Rae, to whom I’m still technically not talking, despite her rushed apology and one-eighty on her opinion of Jet, will find out everything at work today. That leaves a potentially painful pow-wow with my brother.
I wait until right before noon, to limit the length of the conversation. The Sunday games are about to start, and he’ll want to get off the phone to monitor his fantasy players.
As soon as he verifies my boyfriend still has a job and still expects his comeback game to be against the Chargers, he asks, “So in San Diego, do I wear a Chiefs jersey, or is that too obnoxious?”
“Since when have you ever worried about being ‘too obnoxious?’” I say, sitting sideways in Jet’s favorite chair, wearing Jet’s favorite jersey, and gently kicking my white knee-sock-clad feet. “Plus, we both know you’re already packed, so why are you acting like you’re still undecided?”
“I just want to have a plan.”
“Of course, you do.”
“You have no idea how much I need that weekend.” He lowers his voice. “It’s the only thing keeping me going.”
My throat throbs with the realization that, only a few hours ago, I felt the exact same way.
Fortunately, he doesn’t wait for me to respond but continues, “Hey, don’t say anything to Mom and Dad, and don’t you dare tell Deirdre I told you, because she’s not ready to tell anyone, but… we’re pregnant.”
The phone slips from my hand and clatters to the floor in front of the fireplace. “Shit!” I try to reach it without leaving the comfort of the chair, but it’s too far away, so I slither to the ground and snatch it, rolling to all fours and slapping the device to my ear in time to hear Greg say, “Hello? Are you there?”
I try to sound completely chill when I answer, “Wow. That’s great! Wow. I already said that. But I thought—”
“Yeah, it’s sooner than we planned, but I guess on the honeymoon, with the change in routine and everything, Deirdre’s birth control got slightly off-schedule, and—”
“Um, I don’t need to know all the details. Congratulations, though.”
I can practically see his hangdog expression when he says, “Thanks. But it’s already intense. I wasn’t expecting her to be so uptight.”
“This is Deirdre we’re talking about. Isn’t ‘Uptight’ one of her three middle names?”
He chuckles. “Okay, I’ll give you that, but not usually about medical stuff. She’s clinical, you know?”
“Yes. I do.”
“I thought she’d take pregnancy in stride, too. But that hasn’t been the case.”
“Ah. Well, I hear the first time is hard. So, I guess this trip comes at a good time.”
“The best.”
I do the math in my head and say while wiggling back into my butt indentation in the chair, “She’s almost out of the first trimester now, right? Maybe it’ll get better soon.”
He doesn’t sound convinced when he says, “I guess. We’re going to tell everyone after you and I get back from California, so it’s not like you have to keep it a secret for long.”
“My lips are sealed.” This is it. Time to make the new plans official. Let’s go, Richards. Say it. Out loud. “Say… So. About that weekend in San Diego…”
He snorts. “I knew it.”
“What?”
“You’re totally going to ditch me, aren’t you?”
“Ditch you? How did you—”
“I knew you and Jet would somehow find a way to get around all those rules and tight schedules to spend time together.”
“Oh. No, that’s not—”
“It’s okay. I get it. You guys are in luuuuurve. Whatever.”
“Greg, it’s not like—”
“So how’d you swing it? And does this mean I need to get a different room? Because I’m not okay with you two going at it in the queen bed right next to me. That’s nast—”
“I’m not going!” I blurt, the statement feeling every bit as awful as I thought it would.
“Wait. What?”
“I’m not going to California with you. Jet’s having everything of mine transferred over to Dad’s name. My plane and game tickets, our hotel reservation, your VIP passes at the stadium. All of it.” For once my brother is speechless, so I explain without prompting, “With everything that’s happened, the front office thinks I’ll be too much of a distraction.”
Because, let’s face it: whether or not they said it outright to Jet, that’s the reason. There’s no other explanation. He pretty much confirmed it would be the case when he said he was worried about choking with me in the stands.
“That’s bullshit!”
“Well…”
“I guess Jet’s in no position right now, either, to argue with them, huh?”
“He sort of agrees with them.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“It’s okay,” I lie, hoping if I say it enough times it’ll be true, and I won’t feel my throat closing up with tears every time I even think about it. “A lot of thought has gone into the decision, which is complicated, and I understand where they’re coming from.”
“But this is your dream weekend.”
“Nah. It’s your birthday present.”
“Well, it sucks now. Going with Dad? I love the guy, but he doesn’t know any of our inside jokes, and he doesn’t dance with me after touchdowns.”
“I don’t, either.”
“But you want to. I can tell. Dad’s all about spouting stats and discussing the business side of football. That’s boring!”
“Greg, this is the way it has to be, okay? I need Jet to have a good game and come home in one piece more than I need to be there.”
“Are you going to watch at all?”
“I… I’m not sure,” I reluctantly admit what I’ve been debating all morning and probably won’t decide until this isn’t as raw.
He scoffs. “This is effed up. You haven’t missed a game since… si
nce I don’t know when. Never, maybe. Not since adulthood, anyway.”
I don’t need him to point this out to me, but it underscores the depressing nature of the situation. “It’s not that I don’t want to see what I’ll be missing; it’s also going to be torture to wonder during every offensive play if Jet’s going to survive it.”
“He’s ruined football for you. He’s ruined my weekend, my birthday present.”
If he didn’t sound so childish, I’d cry.
But I relish the opportunity to turn the tables on him and say to him, for once, “Oh, Greg, grow the hell up.”
It’s the best I’ve felt all day.
Thirty-Three
Dark Clouds
Now that my vacation plans have been eighty-sixed, my main motivation for getting through the past couple of weeks has been non-existent. I’ve walked through life on auto-pilot, robotically finishing the last-minute details for the fall job fair. Which is today.
And I wish I could say it’s going to be the tour de force I imagined, but “Be the Star of Your Life” is about to fall spectacularly to Earth, leaving a huge crater where my so-called career used to be.
I’ve been keeping an eye on the weather forecast for a week, watching the green blob on the radar creep closer and closer to the KC metro area. When I tried to lobby for an indoor event, Cynthia, not often interested in pulling rank, wouldn’t budge on her long-standing policy of holding all job fairs in the office park’s courtyard.
“We have to take advantage of the beautiful setting and the visibility from passersby,” the director said dismissively, not looking away from her computer monitor to address me. “That’s why we go to the trouble to set up that huge tent. If it rains, it’s not a big deal.”
While the tent will keep fair participants perfectly dry, the humidity is going to kill the cardboard standees I made, some with my own money when I ran out of official job fair budget. I tried to explain my setup would be more sensitive to weather conditions than anything Arnold’s ever done, but Cynthia waved me off. “I suggest you do something lower maintenance then, Maura.”
