by Brea Brown
Um, too late!
And now it’s like someone took over my body (and head) and suddenly gave a shit. What has it gotten me? This morning, a puffy face.
As usual, Jet calls me at 6:30, as he’s heading to the training complex. His call typically serves as a delightful wake-up, the next best thing to opening my eyes to his smile. This morning, however, I’ve been awake for a while. Awake and panicking.
“’Morning, Beautiful.”
“Have you seen the weather?”
“Uh, yeah. Hard to miss it. It’s a monsoon out here.”
I whimper into the phone at how cheerfully he says that, like it’s the most delightful development.
“What? Oh, yeah. Shit. Your job fair’s today.”
“Yes,” is all I can manage.
“I didn’t forget. I’m just— With everything going on the past couple of weeks, and being cleared to play this weekend…” He clears his throat.
Thanks to Jet’s diligence with his physical therapy and the team’s early bye week, he’s completed his recovery right on schedule, and ready to start this Sunday.
And none too soon. As much as I’ve reassured him over and over (and over and over) again about the security of his starting status, I have to admit Wilcox did a phenomenal job while Jet was on the bench.
After a shaky start during the Monday night home opener against the Patriots, where the rookie displayed some understandable nerves during the first two series, he settled down, in large part due to Jet’s calming influence on the sideline and in the helmet speaker. Wilcox led the team to an eked-out win that came down to a missed field goal by the Patriots at the end of regulation. The Chiefs’ win the following week at home against San Francisco was much more authoritative, however, and I could tell Wilcox was getting mighty comfortable out there as Mr. Starting QB.
We can’t have that.
The backup’s growing confidence hasn’t been lost on Jet, either. The long stretches of silence have returned, but this time, I’m not taking it as personally. It’s still unnerving, but I realize he has a lot going on, most of it between his ears.
Now, for the first time in weeks, he’s the cheerful one. “Aw, it’ll be okay. It’s coming straight down, so it’ll be fine under the big top.”
“The booths will be fine. The people will be fine. My standies aren’t going to hold up.”
“Oh. That sucks.”
“To put it lightly.” I release a shaky breath. “All that work. All that—” I almost say “money,” but I don’t dare go there with him, so I bite it back and amend, “All those ideas! And I’m only serving cookies and lemonade, because I was counting on the theme to bring people in, not the promise of free food. When I pictured the day, it was sunny, and the tent was crowded, and everyone was impressed with my life-sized cut-outs.”
“I’m so sorry. This is a major bummer. I wish I could help.”
Running my hand through my bed-head hair, I say miserably, “Unless you can make it stop raining.”
“Nope.”
“Then I’m screwed.”
“Well, what’s your backup plan?”
“I don’t have one. This is it. It works one way.” I sit up in bed and punch my mattress. “Why? Why, why, why is this happening? I never plan anything. This is why. Because planning is a ton of work for nothing.”
“I don’t know what else to say. People will still get the information they need to get jobs, right? That’s the most important thing.”
“I guess.”
“And you’re still hotter than Arnold.”
“Jet, that’s not helping, all right?”
He chuckles. “Sorry. I thought it would make you laugh.”
“Today is supposed to be about my brains, my creativity, my… my brilliance. Not what a great piece of ass I am.”
“Sheesh. Okay. I didn’t realize you cared that much. You’ve hardly talked about it.”
I bite back the retort that I’d be hard-pressed to get a word in edgewise about my life lately, since everything going on in his world right now has taken center stage.
It’s not technically true, anyway; he’s right that I don’t talk about my work. I haven’t wanted to let on how much I care, how hard I’ve tried, or how important the success of this day has become to me.
“Well, I do care, okay? I care about something, and I tried hard to succeed. Never again! Because it’s a huge pain, and when it ends in disaster and heartbreak, not only have I wasted all that time and effort, but I look like an idiot, because I’ve failed.”
“Hey, as long as you’re keeping it in perspective.”
“This is important!”
“I’m not saying it’s not. But it’s kind of a first-world problem, you know?”
“Says the guy who plays a game for a living.”
“Touché,” he concedes on a chuckle.
For some reason, his willingness to laugh at my insult infuriates me further. “You know, it may seem like being your girlfriend is my biggest priority and the greatest accomplishment of my life, but—”
“Nobody thinks that.”
“Everyone thinks that. ‘Oh, good. Maura’s finally got her shit together and snagged a top-notch boyfriend. We were so worried she’d never do anything with her life. Now we can be proud of her.’”
“You need to calm down and hit the shower. When you get to work, none of this will seem so bad, and you’ll figure it out.”
“Don’t tell me what I need to do, okay? I don’t need your stupid game plan.”
“Well, on that note, I need to get to my first meeting.”
“I have to go, too. The sooner this day starts, the sooner it’s over.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine. I can’t wait to hear all about it later, okay? You’ll be great.”
His patronizing tone only serves to make me more petulant. “Doubt it.” I mumble, picking at my bedspread.
His initial response is silence, followed by a snort. “Whatever, Maura. You’d rather be miserable, then go for it. Goodbye.”
I toss my phone into the pile of covers next to me and flip it the bird.
On my way to work, I experience a brainstorm. A big brainstorm. One to rival the thunder and lightning all around me as I run from my car to the office. As soon as I hit the door, I toss my company credit card at the first part-timer I see and send her to the nearest office supplies store with a list of everything I’ll need to save the day.
I have two hours to follow through on my improvisation, so while I wait for her to return, I remove the already-soggy floor stands from my cutouts. When Chastity returns with the pins and adhesives, I assign four or five booths to each of the part-timers dedicated to helping me today, and I take the rest. In double-time, we pin, tape, tack, and Velcro the life-sized cardboard figures to the black curtain backgrounds of each employer’s booth.
And although we’re now officially open but still not finished with every booth, it’s no biggie. “Keep working; we’re almost done,” I tell Becca and Rory, tossing Mrs. Doubtfire and Doc Hollywood at them. “They’re labeled on the back with the booth numbers where they belong.” Thank goodness I was at least that organized.
Leaving it in their capable hands, I turn my attention to the employers, checking they have everything they need, and the arriving applicants. As people enter the tent, I approach the ones who look lost or hesitant, say hello, and introduce myself, then ask if they’re interested in a specific field or simply browsing. Based on their replies, I funnel them toward the most appropriate booth or booths and move on to the next clueless attendee.
After a couple of hours, I’m parched and tired, and my feet are absolutely killing me, but I’m also stunned at how many people are here. Generally, the spring fair brings out more folks than this one. The weather’s better, for one thing. For another, more people are walking around with freshly inked high school and college diplomas, ready to start their careers and make some money. But today I’ve seen easily double the people
Arnold had at his fair in May. Without any pro football players here signing autographs.
I smile smugly to myself and wink at Matthew McConaughey. He’d tell me I’m doing “all right, all right, all right!”
“I say. Did you wink at that handsome cardboard barrister over there?” comes a familiar voice from my left.
I whirl on one of my new tall heels.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, despite being glad to see Colin’s friendly face.
He sips from a straw in a fast food cup. “I thought I’d pop round on my lunch break to see how you’re getting on.”
“Great, after a rough start.”
“The rain literally put a damper on things?”
“Uh, yeah. But it wasn’t as big of a disaster as I thought it was going to be.”
“Things rarely are,” he says sagely.
I roll my eyes. “Yeah. Trust me. I’m going to get a huge helping of ‘I told you so’ from Jet later, too.”
“Did he dare try to calm you when you were in a high dudgeon?”
Pushing on his shoulder, I give him his answer in a dodging, “Shut up.”
“That’ll be a jolly good talk between the two of you later. Can you conference me in?”
“No.”
“Bugger.”
I shoot him a sideways scowl, then momentarily excuse myself to step away to help a newcomer.
When I return to him, he says, “I watched an entire American football game last Sunday by myself, but it’s not the same without your expertise. Since you’re going to be in town, after all, is there any chance you’d like some company watching Sunday’s match?”
My face falls. “Oh. Um… Well, I might not watch.”
“That’s not on. You have to watch.”
“I don’t have to. It’s too hard.”
“Jet’s counting on your support.”
“He doesn’t have to know. I’ll catch the highlights later.” I rock on my burning toes. “You know, I’m trying to be a good sport about the whole thing, but watching is something I’m not sure I can stand.”
“Because you get jealous of those large, sweaty men jumping on top of your boyfriend?”
In spite of my sadness, I laugh. “Yes. That’s it, exactly.”
“He’s a strapping lad. He’ll be fine.” He wraps his arm around my shoulders and pulls me to him in a side hug. “Come on, be a sport. If nothing else, it’ll be a chance for the two of us to catch up. We haven’t talked in an age.”
I sigh at the highly effective guilt trip. “Fine. It’s the late game, since it’s on the west coast. Three o’clock kick-off.”
“At Jet’s house? With my favorite imported ales?”
I push him away from me but laugh. “Okay.”
“Excellent. I’ll see you then. I’d better be heading back to the exciting world of hair art, for now.”
“Thanks for stopping by. Grab a cookie on your way out.”
“Biscuits?” He cranes his neck to see across the tent, toward the small refreshments table, where Catherine Zeta-Jones beckons in her double-breasted chef’s jacket. “Ooh, matron. Well, I say.”
He slinks off in the direction of the food, and I step up to the latest potential job seeker who looks overwhelmed.
I’m high. High on something I’ve so rarely experienced in my life that I don’t recognize it at first: success. I understand how some people might become addicted to this and want to keep doing things to experience it over and over again. They might even choose professions in which striving for victory is a regular—even weekly—occurrence.
After Becca, Rory, and I finish cleaning up everything but the giant tent that will be dismantled and carried off by the rental company tomorrow, the sun peeks out, just in time to set. I shake a good-natured fist in its sinking direction as I toss the last of the bedraggled standies (see ya, Erin Brockovich and firefighter Joaquin Phoenix) into the cardboard recycling dumpster behind the office. Then, whistling, I turn toward the parking lot, vaguely aware of but not caring about the blisters on my feet. Soon, I’ll be home, and I can soak in a hot bath.
After I call Jet to apologize for being so terrible to him this morning.
The poor guy was trying to make me feel better, and I bit his head off. How did I like it the couple of times he did that to me while he was recovering from his hand injury? Not at all. But I gave it right back to him today without considering that. I didn’t have physical pain to blame for my irascibility. I can’t claim I was worried about my job, either, like he’s been.
Today’s elaborate plan went above and beyond what it would have taken to secure my position at The Career Center. I pushed the limits to show off, and once I committed to the plan, I was willing to do anything to avoid defeat and save face. Like forcing a pass to escape a sack on a trick play gone bad. But the only thing risking injury was my pride. Thanks to some quick scrambling, I avoided that. Now it’s time to admit my part in the busted play, apologize to my teammate, and learn from the experience.
I’m rehearsing in my head what I’m going to say to Jet when I call him, as I round the corner of the building, expecting my car to be the only one left in the lot. But it has company, in the form of a much prettier friend who makes her look dirty, rundown, and old. Leaning against the red Corvette, holding a massive bouquet of gerbera daisies, is exactly the man I want to see.
We break into grins at the same time. I’d run to him if I could do it without limping and whimpering. Instead, I settle for the slower walk that hides my pain. It looks cooler, anyway.
The setting sun glints off the windshields of the cars and the cellophane around the flowers. I blink at the brilliance that eventually disappears as I draw nearer to the objects.
“Hey, Beautiful,” Jet says, then flinches and corrects, “I mean, Smart Girl.”
I laugh and deliver a peck to his smooth cheek while receiving the flowers. “Nice save. But I like your traditional greeting.”
“You didn’t this morning.”
“I didn’t like anything this morning. This morning sucked. I sucked.” Looking down at the brilliant reds, yellows, and oranges in the blooms in my arms, I say, “Thanks for these. They’re gorgeous and just my style.” I set them on the hood of my car so I can hug him without anything crackling or smooshing between us.
He wraps his arms around me and squeezes so tightly, I worry I might pass out. After a few seconds, his grip loosens enough that I can breathe again, but he doesn’t let me go. Near my ear, he says quietly, “I do love you for your mind, too, you know.”
My index finger swirls in the back of his hair. “Okay.”
He pulls his head back slightly to look down into my face. “I do. This morning, you made me feel like a real jerk. Like, guys aren’t allowed to tell the women they love they’re hot or sexy or any of that anymore, because that means we don’t value you as people. But if we never told you how beautiful we think you are, that wouldn’t be right, either.”
“I normally like it. But this morning wasn’t the right time. I was freaking out.”
“Yeah, well I was, too, after I hung up with you. I couldn’t concentrate on what the coaches were saying. I stared out the window at the rain, worried about you, and wished I could be here to help you.”
Feeling bad for him now, I calmly, gently say, “Why don’t you accept that you’re not going to be able to fix everything all the time? That would be a good start.”
He exhales loudly and lets me go altogether. After a pause, he replies, “Okay. So, how did it go?”
“It went fine.” My smile returns when I amend, “Better than fine. Cynthia was impressed. Which means I probably have this responsibility for the rest of my life.” My eyes land on his broad chest. I stare at it while I follow my logic, and my euphoria fades a bit. “I’ll have to keep topping myself, and that’s stressful, but I’m not going to think about that right now.”
I blink and return my attention to his face. The gleam in his eye and knowing smile
spread a warmth through my chest that the damp, chilly evening can’t touch. “Enjoy feeling good for a few minutes. You deserve it.”
“I will. I’m just relieved it’s over and that my vacation starts”—I tap the imaginary watch on my wrist—“now.”
When my San Diego plans were nixed, I debated canceling my vacation days altogether and saving them for when Jet will be making this up to me. On a beach. In the middle of winter. That will have to wait until after the season, though, and my vacation days will have reset by then. I’m also so burned out that I need this time off, even if I sit in my house the whole time, sleeping and watching movies.
Actually, that sounds pretty awesome right now. Maybe not as good as kicking off the week in California, at a professional football game, but dwelling on that impossibility has brought me nothing but misery the past couple of weeks.
Jet rubs my shoulders. “You deserve it, too. And your cardboard friends? How’d they hold up?”
“With tape and Velcro and pins. On the booth backdrops.”
“Great idea!”
I tap my temple. “Thought of it on my way to work.”
“You’re so smart.”
“Yeah, I know.” We laugh at my affected smugness.
“Can I take the most amazing job counselor to dinner?”
My stomach growls before I can give him a verbal answer, but when I picture what dinner out would probably look like tonight, four days before his comeback game, I wince and reply, “Now that the adrenaline’s wearing off, I don’t know if I can sit upright for much longer, much less smile through seven hundred interruptions while we try to eat.”
He tucks my hair behind my ear. “There goes that exaggeration again. We’d probably only be bothered about a hundred times.” Leaning down, he bumps lips with me. “Then how about we go back to my place? Beau made something for me for dinner before I impulsively came out here to meet the victor. Chicken-broccoli-rice something-or-other. It’s not gourmet, but it’ll taste good, and the only one who will interrupt us at home is white and furry and can be locked in a different room until we finish eating.”
