Lessons in Lemonade

by Andrews, Kathryn

  And with it, so has mine.

  Ridiculous, I know. After all, we’ve only spent a handful of days together, but I can’t help it. He’s so sad, and there’s nothing I can do about it to make it better. I even canceled my date that was scheduled for this week. I just couldn’t bring myself to go. I keep reminding myself that soon enough this sucky period will be over, that life does go on, but in the meantime I feel weary, run-down. I know I just need to recharge a little and then I’ll be back at it.

  Speaking of recharging, the restaurant has been slammed the last couple of weeks. I know we are in season with the snowbirds heading south, but still, we are booked solid just about every single day with a few private functions thrown in here and there. I hate saying the business has been a good distraction because I’m grateful and love how much people want to eat at OBA, but it is. If only I could come up with a distraction for him.

  The kitchen door swings open and Taylor breezes in, holding up a piece of paper and waving it.

  “Guess what I’ve got?” she singsongs, grinning from ear to ear.

  “I’m not sure, but you’re very excited, so I’m sure you’ll tell me,” I sing back at her.

  My hands are covered in corn fritter batter. Instead of flattening them, we like to roll them into balls before we drop them into the oil for frying. Served in a paper bag, they are one of our bestselling items.

  “It’s the official list of who’s who for the Charleston Wine and Food Festival, and guess whose tickets for brunch on Sunday have sold out?” She’s beaming.

  Behind me, the noise in the kitchen softens as heads pop up from different stations to hear what she has to say.

  “No way. Us?” I wipe my thumb and index finger on a towel next to me then take the paper from her. Looking down at it, I see there is an updated alphabetical list of those who are participating, and there next to OBA is stamped ‘Sold out.’

  I can’t believe it. I’m in delighted awe.

  “Yep!” She rocks up on her toes and clasps her hands together behind her back.

  “This is amazing, and such great news . . . much-needed great news,” I mumble, mostly to myself, but she hears me. I’m still staring at the list, spotting the predictable places that are chosen to participate every year, and I can’t help but feel pride for those of us who are the unexpected wildcards.

  Her look turns briefly sympathetic at my admission, but the joy of being on the sold-out list shines through. Taylor has done an amazing job managing the front of the house since Shelby left, and she should be just as proud as I am.

  When we first threw our name into the hat last year, I don’t think we expected the committee to pick us as we’re still fairly new to the Charleston food scene, but then they did. Our idea was simple as we are mainly a brunch place, but nothing goes better with brunch than a sparkling beverage, so that’s what we pitched.

  Located in the heart of downtown Charleston, OBA, short for Orange Blossom Avenue, is housed in a historic building with floor-to-ceiling windows, exposed whitewashed brick walls, vintage chandeliers, and a covered courtyard filled with fruits, vegetables, plants, and herbs used by the kitchen. You’ll enjoy a menu featuring unique and delightful Southern dishes that will give you all the goodness without the guilt. Each course will be paired with a specific delicious selection of bubbles for a meal guaranteed to be as light and fresh as your surroundings.

  Before we knew it, a photographer showed up to take photos of the restaurant and a few signature dishes, and then we were listed on the festival’s website. Our event was announced in the lineup, our blurb was featured, and through a link posted underneath, attendees could purchase tickets. We made a promise to ourselves that we wouldn’t consistently check it for updates, and with everything that’s been going on with Jack, I kind of forgot and had no idea.

  When I lower the paper, Taylor and I stare at each other, grinning. Words don’t need to be said as we both understand the enormity of this. The Charleston Wine and Food Festival is one of the premier culinary festivals in the nation. We have no idea how many critics, journalists, and bloggers have purchased tickets, but this one meal has the potential to be defining for us for quite some time. If we nail it, the sky’s the limit, but if we bomb it, there’s no telling how long it will take for us to dig ourselves out of the hole.

  My heart feels like it’s going to burst as Taylor gets called back to the front, and the staff behind me slips out of the trance and returns to work. Walking to the sink, I wash my hands and allow the excitement to override the fear.

  Fear—such a stupid emotion. What do I have to fear? As long as I have all the ingredients, I can make anything work, and if for some reason I don’t, I’ll improvise. We’ve got this. I’ve got this.

  Picking up my phone, I call the one person who’ll truly understand what this means. She answers on the second ring, and I blurt it out before she can even say hello.

  “Shelby, we sold out.” I pinch my eyes shut, smiling so big my teeth are grinding together.

  “Sold out what?” Her tone is excited now too, matching mine.

  “The Wine and Food Festival brunch.” Opening my eyes, I spot my latest glass of iced coffee on my station and reach for it.

  There’s not even a pause—she squeals immediately. “Well, I’ll be. I knew you would,” she states matter-of-factly.

  “How did you know?” I take a sip and let the beverage cool me down.

  “Because you are an amazing chef and OBA is quickly becoming a landmark in Charleston.”

  I don’t argue with her. I know she’s right. We’ve worked so hard to make a name for ourselves.

  “You’ll come, right? To help?” I put the glass down and pick up a large rubber spatula to run around the inside of the fritter batter bowl, pushing it into a fresh pile.

  “Of course I’ll be there. Zach and I both will.”

  Zach . . . Zach makes me think of Jack. My heart dips, and my hand stops. It crossed my mind that I should call him and tell him, too, but that expression about kicking a man when he’s down takes over and I don’t want to do that to him. It’s not that I think he wouldn’t be happy for me, but it feels a little like rubbing my good fortune in his face while he’s been dealt a hand of misfortune.

  Shaking my head, I decide I won’t call him, and I refocus on the job in front of me, and on Lexi and Zach. Zach and his sangrias—a couple of those would be perfect! Light, refreshing, and a way to highlight his wines to a large, influential audience. I could also use some of his lavender honey.

  “That makes me so happy.” My heart sighs at knowing she’ll be here. “I think I need to place an order for some honey,” I tell her, and she starts laughing.

  “I’m on it. How many jars do you need?”

  Golden Corn Fritters

  I DON’T THINK I’ve ever told anyone this, but March is my favorite month. I know, I know, one would think it’s in the fall at the start of the season, but it’s not. As much as I love football, tailgating with the rich smell of charcoal, and the crispness of autumn touching most of the country, it’s still a time of work for me and there’s no time to slow down and breathe.

  By the end of the year, we are so dialed in to finish strong that the holidays are mostly a blur, and we consistently make it to the postseason, pushing us into January. Then the season comes to an abrupt end and before I know it, February has already started and then is halfway done, which leaves March as the beginning of my new year.

  March one. There’s beautiful weather, and it’s a great time to be outside and to refocus myself. I detox my body and heal any outstanding issues, and as any sports lover will tell you, it’s the beginning of baseball season. Pitchers and catchers have reported in and spring training is well underway. A perk of living in Florida or Arizona is there’s never a shortage.

  Only this year, I feel as if my calendar has shifted. Hell, everything has shifted, and I feel out of sorts in a bad way. February third was the Super Bowl then February fourth
was the surgery, which became day one of my new year, and since then I’ve been counting the days. It’s not like I have anything else to do.

  It’s been twenty-nine days since Meg left, fourteen days since my staples were removed and the knee immobilizer changed, and one day since I got the call to head in to the front office.

  Today is the day.

  Today is the day I’ve been dreading where team management wants to meet to discuss my options. The way I see it, there are only two options: I stay on their roster, or I don’t. It’s the don’t part that makes me nervous, because if I don’t, what do I do with my life? I’d like to say life has been hard lately, but it hasn’t. If anything, it’s just been boring, and I’m not meant to live a boring life. I miss my routine. I miss my friends. I miss the ache, burn, and exhaustion from a killer workout. I miss taking Zeus for long walks, and if I’m being honest with myself, I really miss her.

  Meg.

  I know I haven’t been the most social person with her lately, and that’s my fault. I just feel like I’m in limbo, and until I know what’s happening next, I’ve shut down and shut off. I don’t know what to talk about, I don’t want to be asked any questions I can’t answer, and I certainly don’t want to be pitied. I’m not saying she would, but what man wants that or to even set themselves up for the possibility?

  Looking out the window as I cross over the Hillsborough River, I see the water is gray today . . . gray like her eyes, gray like my soul. Dramatic much? Yes, but I just can’t help it. I’m headed to meet with my boss, and I have a bad feeling I’m not going to like what I hear. I didn’t even sleep last night, because with every fiber of my being, I know what they are going to say.

  Retirement.

  Shaking my head, I shove out the worst-case scenario thoughts and focus on the road as I drive the remaining distance, park, and hobble in through the front doors and toward Coach’s office. All down the hallway, there are pictures of the team’s players in action, and I pause just for a second as I get to one of mine. It was an insane end-zone catch from a game two years ago, a split-second need to change the play, and with it the points tipped us over to win the game. I’ll never forget that moment.

  Letting out a sigh, I continue down the hall.

  “Good morning. They’re ready for you if you want to go on it,” says the staff administrative assistant. Her gaze drops to my leg as I approach then quickly flashes back up as she smiles. It’s a fake smile, and I can’t help but grit my teeth and scowl, her acknowledgment an unwanted reminder of what this meeting represents.

  Moving past her, I crutch my way into his office and sit down in one of two leather chairs in front of his desk. There are two other people waiting for me, and I push down the sensation of their stares and the silence crawling up my spine. I’m exhausted after just the walk in from the parking lot, and internally I’m swearing at how much I hate this.

  His office looks like any other coach’s office. There are two windows on the outside wall, to the right of me is built-in shelving with a mini refrigerator and a stocked bar, and to the left is a small table with four chairs. The left wall is complete with a flat-screen television for watching film and a whiteboard where plans and plays are discussed. Sporadically throughout the room there are memorabilia from his time playing, awards he’s won over the years, and beautiful pictures of stadiums and his family.

  “How’s it going, Jack?” Coach says across the desk from me. He grabs one of the peanut butter and oat snack balls he’s always eating from a plastic container next to him and tosses it into his mouth.

  My eyes meet his and hold. There’s no pity in them; for him this is just another day at the office with another injured player. If anything, he looks resolute.

  “Been better,” I grumble.

  His lips press into a flat line as he leans back in his chair, which creaks—loudly.

  “Sorry I’m late,” comes from behind me as Dr. Leffers walks in and sits in the chair next to me. It’s then I take a good look at the others in the room. There’s my wide receiver coach and the team’s head athletic trainer; I give each of them a nod as they stare at me.

  Dr. Leffers turns to look at me and his brows pull down. “Jesus, Jack. You look like a vampire. When’s the last time you saw sunlight?”

  I frown at his assessment. He doesn’t understand; it’s hard to go anywhere. I’m a tall guy and my leg is essentially locked out straight. Instead of answering him, I slouch down in my chair and turn my attention back to Coach. He chuckles at whatever he sees on my face then claps his hands together to shake off the crumbs.

  “All right then, let’s get started.”

  Moving, he reaches for a folder and flips it open. My ears buzz as he reviews my contract and the details in regards to a long-term injury like this. I know everything he’s saying; my agent went over it with me last week. His words are scripted—after all, organizations like this always protect themselves. This may not be their first rodeo, but it is mine.

  “The most common complication of dislocating the knee includes ligament weakness and loss of motion. There’s also the possibility that the kneecap may be different after it heals. As you know, complete recovery takes a minimum of nine months, and it can take up to a year. That means next season is out as well.”

  Next season—gone. Poof.

  Sweat breaks out across my back with anxiety. I’m already thirty-two. By the time I would even possibly be able to return, I would be pushing thirty-four. The writing is on the wall. Why would they keep me when they could bring in someone younger, faster, healthier? Letting out a deep breath, I know what’s coming, and I’m not ready. Why couldn’t it have been just an ACL tear? Six to eight weeks and then I’m back at it and with the team I love.

  Clearing my throat, I ask, “What happens next?”

  Coach tilts his head as he looks at me, like really looks at me. “Rehabilitation. Lots of it.”

  “When?” I look at the doctor.

  “Soon. Maybe two more weeks,” he says, glancing back and forth between the coach and me.

  Needing to throw caution to the wind, I lock eyes with Coach and ask, “At what point will I be ready to return to the team?”

  He presses his lips into a thin line.

  “For you to return, Dr. Leffers will most likely want to test your leg strength before giving all of us a go-ahead. He will compare your strength using some functional knee testing, like hopping. The goal is that it be at least eighty-five to ninety percent of your uninjured side. He will also assess your leg’s endurance and your balance, and if you are having any swelling.”

  I know all the things he’s telling me. It’s a standard story they tell any of us who end up with a knee injury, but it’s not the answer I’m looking for, and I rub the nervousness from my palms across the tops of my thighs.

  “But you’re saying there’s a chance I’ll be able to return?”

  “Again, not next season—that would be a little too aggressive in our thinking—but as for the season after, maybe. None of us can predict how your body is going to respond, how fast it’s going to heal, and what type of range of motion you’re going to have at the end of the day. All we need you to do right now is take it easy until it’s time to work hard, harder than you ever have, and come back to us. You will be camping out on the injured reserve list for a while. There’s no guarantee or promises, but, Jack, you’ve meant a lot to this organization for a long time, and we’re committed to giving you the time and the resources you need to recover.”

  My heart thumps hard in my chest and I reach up to rub it. They didn’t say it. They’re giving me a chance. If I could I would damn near bawl like a baby, but not here, and definitely not in front of them. For the last four weeks, I’ve felt nothing but disappointment, and with this tiny life raft into my future, I’m reminded that there’s still fight in me. I can do this; I know I can. I just need to find my place here while I’m doing it.

  The meeting lasts for another fifteen minut
es or so. I can see them assessing my headspace as we talk, not that I blame them. Everyone handles injuries differently. I know they feel the presence of the cloud lingering over me, but a tiny crack of light peeked through today and I know that’s a start.

  Once the meeting is over, Brett, our athletic trainer, and I make our way into the training room. I’m assaulted by the smell of sweat, metal from the equipment, and laughter from the few guys who are in right now. I miss being in here with them; I miss my team. Granted, I know I’m romanticizing the kumbaya atmosphere—it is the offseason now and most people have left town—but still.

  The clinking of weights, the whir of the treadmill, rap music playing overhead . . . another crack breaks through the melancholy cloud—that is until about thirty minutes into working with him when I realize teammates are moving around me as if I’m invisible. Sure, a few toss out a “What’s up?” but mostly I only get nods with no eye contact. I’ve become that person, and people are too superstitious to overlook the fact that I need my team. I need my football family. The crack closes, pushing away the light.

  Being here, doing these simple exercises, I’m not feeling invigorated or really even a sense of relief; I’m feeling frustrated and lonelier than I have in a long time. These are not moves of a professional athlete; they don’t make me feel like I’ll be back with my team here shortly. These are moves that remind me I’m not currently one of them.

  Words from my coach filter back through my mind. “We’re postseason now, Jack. You don’t have to stay here. You can go home, heal, just continue the rehabilitation and have the trainer check in weekly with progress updates.”

  At the time, I immediately dismissed the idea—I’m certainly not going to Arizona. Tampa is my home. Reid and Bryan are both here, and they’re like my brothers. Then reality sinks in a little as I think about how our lives have changed over the last year, theirs in particular. Both fell in love and have, in many ways, moved on. Bryan is really only here half the time now as he goes back and forth between here and his house with Lexi in the country, and Reid now has Camille. Sure, I’m always included, but I am the third wheel, and suddenly that doesn’t feel so good.