“Nope. Now we just ride the wave until we get to the shore.”
“I guess so.”
With his other hand, he reaches for my waist and brings me closer. Leaning over him, I place my forehead on his and watch as his eyes slip shut, his nostrils flaring as he breathes in and out.
This guy . . . he’s so tragically, devastatingly handsome. My heart clenches in my chest, and being this close to him, I forget how much I hate hospitals and decide it’s really nice getting to be affectionate with him. All it took was two simple interactions, Thanksgiving and this, and he’s familiar to me in a way no one has ever been.
Minutes pass until I feel the need to shake off the tender way my heart is reacting toward him, and I pull back, smile, and hold up the gown. He slips his arms into it, and I tie it behind his neck. From underneath the gown, he yanks on his shorts, which I pull down and carefully slide over his legs, and then he flips the side of the gown up and looks at the compression shorts.
“I think you’re going to need to cut these off.”
I think he’s right.
Looking around the room, I find a pair of surgical scissors next to the sink then carefully cut up the thigh of each of his legs. He pulls them off, hands them to me, and I throw them away as he not so subtly adjusts himself under the gown.
“All set now.” I grin to attempt to keep the mood light. It doesn’t work; he just stares blankly, clearly lost in his own thoughts.
Overhead, the air conditioning kicks on, and a hum settles around us. I climb up on the edge of his bed to sit, and he shifts a little to give me more room.
“What if I never play again?” he asks, his voice so somber.
The vulnerability in him is so palpable and so real it’s creating a thickness around us, and I just want to blow it all away, want to clear the air and thin it out so he can breathe a little easier.
Reaching over, I lay my hand on his arm and gently run it up and down. “Then it’s time for a new adventure. You’ll be all right—no, you’ll be better than all right. You’ll be just fine and dandy.” I push optimism and confidence his way, smiling to try to ease his aching heart. I know right now he feels like there’s no silver lining and nowhere to go, but I have faith that eventually he’ll pull through.
Instead of responding, he sits up, his hands find my waist, and he yanks me closer then lays his head on my shoulder. My arms wrap around him, and I hold him to me until it’s time for him to go. His eyes lock onto mine when he’s about to pass through the door, and they’re pleading for this not to be happening, even though it is. I stand strong and reassure him I’ll be here when he gets back, and then he’s gone.
God, this sucks.
I’m left standing in the room with the nurse, and she turns to look at me. I’m clutching his hoodie, and she pats me on the arm.
“Don’t worry, dear, he’ll be fine.”
“I know. Thank you.”
And I do. After all, it’s just a knee surgery. Maybe a complicated one based on what they find, but in no way life-threatening . . . just life-changing.
“Of course you know you’re welcome to stay here to wait for him, but if you get hungry, you should head on down to the cafeteria. I promise the food isn’t all that bad, and since it’s breakfast time, you should definitely get the hash brown casserole. It’s delicious.” She gives me a wink and then she’s gone, too.
Anxiety drips back in now that I’m alone. It’s silent except for the noises coming from beyond the door, and I eye the chair in the corner. It’s eerily similar to the ones in the chemotherapy infusion centers, but at least there the room was large and there were several patients present. Here, I’m left alone with my thoughts, and I don’t like it. Then, as if the universe understands, sunlight breaks through the cracks in the blinds and floods the room, reminding me that I made a choice years ago to always look on the bright side instead of falling down the rabbit hole.
Settling into the chair, I begin thinking about all the good things in my life, the simple things that bring me joy, starting with his hoodie. I slip it on; it swallows me in size, and it smells so much like him I want to drown in it. It’s a little bit of sweat, but mostly a sporty scent mixed with citrus, and it smells so good. I instantly feel better already.
I may not be able to control what’s going on around me, but I can control what I choose to focus on, and right now, I can’t think of anything better than him.
My best friend.
Hash Brown Casserole
THERE ARE FLOWERS in my home.
Not from any of my friends or the team, but from Meg. Hell, the team knows dudes don’t want flowers; we want shit that’s going to make this go away as fast as it can. They sent over a schedule for when I should be in the training room to meet with the athletic trainers and who’ll be helping me maintain the rest of my body, along with a phone number for a chef who will bring me meals for two weeks when I’m ready.
But the flowers . . .
They are yellow and bright, a complete contrast to the muted gray, navy, and white tones of my condo, and I find my eyes are continually drawn to them. I’m angry at their colorful cheerfulness, as if all of this is the flowers’ fault.
I hate that I’m mad, too. It’s such a contradiction to how I thought I would feel when my career approached this crossroad, yet I can’t help it. I’m not ready.
The knee surgery ended up lasting three and a half hours. Multiple ligaments needed to be repaired, and they lied when they said I’d be home by lunch. Turned out it was closer to dinner, and I felt awful that Meg was stuck at the hospital all that time waiting for me. Of course, the first thing I asked when I woke up was if I will ever play again, and Dr. Watson just frowned and said he didn’t know, told me athletic abilities return differently for everyone, but he had full confidence I would heal up nicely in no time. The pessimistic dark cloud that had moved in sometime over the last twenty-four hours read between the lines: he doesn’t think I’ll be returning to the career, the sport, the life I love.
In addition to that, I’m also not ready for Meg to leave, and she will be first thing in the morning. I understand, though; just because my world stopped doesn’t mean everyone else’s did. Aside from the day she flew out to the game, she’s been with me for two days now, making a total of three, which is one and a half past how long she thought she would be gone. She had plans to fly back to Tampa after the game with Camille and Reid and then be off to Charleston first thing the following morning. I’m certain her restaurant manager Taylor has had about enough.
Hearing a noise in the kitchen, I tear my eyes off the flowers and shift them to her. The anger I feel dissipates a bit as I mentally take pictures to store away for later. I like having her in my house and among my things more than I should. Upon walking in, she had Zeus wrapped around her finger immediately, and she easily made herself comfortable, maneuvering around as if she’s been coming here for years. It was nice to watch, even through the haze of the medicine. She was like a little tornado as she took charge and whirled around from one thing to the next.
“Can I get you anything?” she calls over to me. Without her shoes on, she is short—like really short. Her head and half her chest barely peek above the counter, and another day at another time, I would most definitely make fun of her. Not today, though; I just don’t have it in me.
“Nah, I’m good. I just want you to come sit with me.” Like a security blanket, I want her near me all the time.
“Okay, just give me a few minutes and I’ll be right there.” She smiles at me then spins around. See: tornado.
I watch as she opens the oven door and bends over to check what’s inside. A big part of her whirling has been making me food that will sustain me for quite some time. Right after we got home from the hospital yesterday, she inspected my kitchen, and then using an app on her phone, she placed a large grocery order to be delivered. She’s been cooking nonstop and packing my freezer. I told her it wasn’t necessary, but she looked at me as if I was crazy
. She and I both know how much I like food, specifically how much I like her food.
“It smells delicious,” I tell her as she walks over, pushes Zeus to the floor, and sits down on the couch next to me.
“I hope it will be.” She smiles warmly. He places his head in her lap and she pets him; I wish she were petting me. It feels so good when she has her hands on my arm, my back, or in my hair.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Church supper spaghetti. It’s not the healthiest dish with the cheese and noodles, but if you eat a salad with it, you’ll be all right.”
Color hits her cheeks as she looks at me, and I look at her without commenting in return. Her face is scrubbed free of any makeup, her hair is plopped on top of her head, and aside from how beautiful she is, the evidence of the last several days is present under her big, gorgeous eyes, like I imagine it is under mine, too. She’s helped me so much, and I’m incredibly grateful, even if my mood doesn’t reflect that.
“Tell me a story?” I ask, just wanting to hear her voice.
“What kind of story?” She pulls a blanket over her lap as Zeus curls up at her feet, and she tucks an escapee piece of hair behind her ear.
“It doesn’t matter. Anything about you.”
I want to know this girl, like really know her.
“Hmm. Let’s see . . .” She looks up and over toward the windows as she thinks, and then, surprising me, she says, “When I was going through chemotherapy, I lost my sense of taste.”
Shaking her head to herself, she looks back down at me, smiling a little, and I know my brows have risen.
“I’d loved food for so long, and I had known for years that whatever career I ended up in would somehow revolve around food, so shortly after the chemo started and that happened, I kind of lost myself for a while.”
“Is that normal, and how long was it gone?” I don’t move, don’t reach out to comfort her; she wouldn’t want it because she’s moved past all this, but still.
“Yes, it is normal, but at the time I didn’t know that. At first things just started tasting differently, and then I lost it. About fifty percent of people have taste changes. They don’t know why but think it has something to do with damage to the taste buds. All in all, I had issues for eight to nine months.”
“That’s a long time.”
“Yeah. Shelby and I had already been accepted to culinary school when this happened, and even though there was sufficient time for me to go through treatment and come out the other side, it was still hard. Nothing like explaining to teachers and other students that, while my hair had just started growing in so it was obvious what’d happened, I was there to be a chef but had no sense of taste.”
“That sucks. I’m sorry.”
She shrugs one shoulder. “I remember the moment when I got the first tiny hint that my taste was coming back. Shelby and I were in Stocks, Soups, and Sauces, a first-semester class where they were teaching classical and contemporary methods. It was a béchamel, one of the five mother sauces. In it is whole milk, flour, butter, onion, and spices. We were tasting it, and I could very distinctly detect the flavor of whole cloves and salt. Salt! My heart started racing with the realization and I started crying, which alone was embarrassing enough, but I was so excited I burst out to the entire class that I could taste it and everyone cheered.” She smiles to herself and looks back up at me tenderly. “That was a good day.”
“Sounds like it. Since I’ve known you, you haven’t talked much about what it was like having cancer.”
She glances down at her hands then brings her head up to look me straight in the eyes. “What’s there to really talk about? Bad things happen to people all the time. Divorces, illness, a lost job, a sudden death of a family member, car accidents—you name it, but once it’s done, it’s done. Time to learn from it and move on.”
“Have you moved on? It hasn’t been all that long.”
“Most days, yes, but I’d be lying if I said the fear doesn’t linger. Even though the cancer is gone and I’ve been told I’m cancer-free, I’m not free. My wounds have healed, that last cycle of chemo is completed, there’s no more radiation and I’ve rung the bell . . . one would think I’m free, but I’m not. It’s on my mind constantly with every ache, every common cold, every scan, every poke. It’s been over seven years since the words ‘full remission’ were said to me, but I’m still dealing and I’m still healing. Despite what people think, it continues long after you’ve been told you’re cancer-free.”
“You still go for scans?” My heart rate picks up a little at knowing she still has to get checked out, at knowing there’s a need for it and there’s an actual possibility the cancer could come back.
“I do. Blood work, too. They’ve slowed down over time, and I only go in once a year now.”
“Is it scary?”
Her lips press into a flat line, and then she answers, “Yes.” She doesn’t elaborate; she doesn’t need to.
“I’m sorry you went through that.” I truly am. She’s here with me, and more than anything I wish I could go back in time and be there for her.
“It is what it is. Things turned out all right in the end. Could’ve been worse.” She gives me a small smile, only I can’t smile back. I don’t want to smile back.
Suddenly my anger is back, only this time it’s twofold. I’m mad for the situation I’m in, and I’m rip-roaring mad for what she went through.
Why? Why her?
I know this is a question loved ones always ask, but it’s truly how I feel. What was the point of it? Why did she have to experience that? I know I’m being completely irrational as this happened a long time ago, it’s over, and she’s fine, but to me it feels like it’s happening now.
Reaching up with her thumb, she gently rubs the wrinkles that have taken up residence between my eyes. I know my face is frozen in a permanent scowl, but I can’t help it; I’m not happy. As much as I loved her story, loved her sharing that with me, it may as well have been another log tossed onto the fire of my already outraged mood.
“You need to rest. You know the more you sleep, the faster you’ll heal.” Her pale gray eyes trail over my face as she takes in each point of tension, and her thumb slides to the outside of my eye and down over the rough stubble of my cheek.
It feels so good, but I don’t answer her. There’s nothing for me to say. She sees the storm brewing inside me, only now it’s grown in response to what life has tossed at us both.
I hate this. I hate how things have turned out for me, and I hate how life has treated her. It’s not fair; none of it is. Yes, I know she’s fine now, but the rational side of me can’t catch up to the irrational side, and my emotions are strung so tight I feel like I’m going to burst from the inside out.
And then at her words, I do.
“Lie down,” she says tenderly, patting her lap.
She is the needle to my balloon, and just like that, I pop.
Letting out the deepest breath known to man, I shift my hips on the couch to scooch down and lie backward, placing my head in her lap. At this point I would crawl into her lap if I could, even though she’s half the size of me.
From above, she leans over, presses her lips gently but firmly to my forehead, and kisses me.
My eyes burn with the telltale sign of tears, and I curse the unwanted emotion. I feel like I’ve hit a new level of rock bottom, and I can’t find it in me to give a fuck. Instead of fighting the tears, I close my eyes and let them leak out.
She softly runs her fingers over the lines of my face and through my hair. It’s soothing and apparently the key needed to unlock my insides. I know she’s doing her best to understand, but can anybody really? I’m fucking brokenhearted, and I don’t know where to go from here.
Church Supper Spaghetti
IT’S BEEN TWO weeks since I left him, two weeks where I’ve felt like the worst human ever because he is there and I am here. He needs me—well, he needs someone, and from snooping around and talking t
o Camille and Lexi, I know he isn’t getting it. He’s holed himself up in his condo, he’s refusing to see his friends, and he’s all alone. I’m surprised by how much this is bothering me, but I just can’t seem to help it. I know he will pull through this, know his knee will heal, but I’m still worried about him.
I’m also bothered by how different from the Jack I knew he quickly became. There’s definitely something to be said for seeing a person at their worst, and he was at his. I don’t mind his worst, though. In many ways, he resembled a broken bird, perhaps a very large bird but nonetheless one who’d had its wings clipped and its very essence somehow stripped away. The guy I’ve come to know, the one who laughs, jokes, and is always up to no good—he is gone, and in his place is anger, melancholy, and silence. It was eerie to be near him and for him to be so quiet.
Of course I’ve called to check on him, but conversations are short, his voice flat and dull. He doesn’t say much, but then again I guess there really isn’t much to say. He’s stuck in his condo and having to wait to sort through what happens next.
Feeling the need to take care of him from afar, using the same packaging Lexi does to ship pies, I overnighted him a few dishes last week. I know he’s perfectly capable of ordering his own food, but I want him to know I’m thinking of him, too. Of course he sent me a text to thank me for the food, but not much beyond that.
There are also no social media posts from him. Every day I find myself looking, multiple times a day, waiting for the buzz of a notification, but his last post was from the day of the game where he put up a picture of him in his jersey adorned with the Super Bowl patch. The caption: Dreams do come true.
Fans have commented nonstop wondering how he is and looking for an answer, but he isn’t giving them one. It’s not that he has to—his private life is his and his alone—but like his fans, I’m sitting here holding my breath and wondering too. He also hasn’t commented on any of my posts. He does like them, but the banter from my friend is gone. I feel like his spirit has died.
Lessons in Lemonade Page 10
