Lessons in Lemonade

by Andrews, Kathryn

  “I also learned that time is magic. It’s what set the tone to define how I choose to live my life now. You’ve teased me before about always drinking the lemonade and calling me Little Miss Sunshine, but I have to look for the good in every situation. I want to. Things may not always be crystal clear, but I know eventually the sun will come out. I choose the positive, because what’s the point in the alternative?”

  His face blanches and he leans back a smidge as if I pushed him. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t trying to make fun of you in any way. I admire your outlook on life. It’s one of the things I love about you.”

  Love . . . not even going to touch that with a ten-foot pole.

  “Oh, I know.” I turn to face him more and pull one leg up under me. “If I thought you were being mean to me, you wouldn’t be here right now.” I grin at him. “I like who I am now and the perspective I’ve gained because of it.”

  He purses his lips and looks down at the couch between us. Scooching closer, he picks up one of my hands and starts playing with my fingers. I’m once again awestruck by how large his hands are. As a wide receiver, I guess they would have to be, but his basically engulf mine twice over.

  “We’ve never talked about this.” His eyes rise to find mine. “You don’t bring it up and I’m not sure you would want me to, so I haven’t, but I’d like to know more. I’m just trying to figure out how to word my questions without sounding insensitive or nosey about your business.”

  “Jack, you can ask me anything and I’ll tell you.” I squeeze his fingers reassuringly and give him a go-ahead smile.

  “All right. Did you know you had cancer? Did you suspect it? Did you have any symptoms?”

  Of course the first one is a doozy. I really do hate this question. I think Jack is ultimately just curious about me, but most of the time people ask this to educate themselves on possible markers for themselves, things to look out for. While I’m all for empowering people with knowledge, there are thousands of types of cancers and all of them can present differently.

  “No, I didn’t know. I was twenty-one, and no one that young thinks about cancer.”

  “At thirty-two, before I met you, I didn’t really think about it either.” He gives me a small smile, laces his fingers with mine, and then tucks a loose piece of hair behind my ear before tossing his free arm across the back of the couch.

  “Shelby had started a blog where we road-tripped, eating at different restaurants, and she would write reviews. Every weekend we were out trying something new, and I noticed I had started gaining weight. Of course, I blamed it on all the food, and that’s when we started running. We ran and ran, but the weight never came off, and I started getting heartburn. It wouldn’t go away no matter how many antacids I ate. I ended up at the doctor for that, and the rest is history.”

  “Wow.” His eyes widen and his brows rise.

  “You can say that again.” With my free hand I pull the blanket from across the couch and drag it across my lap. “The tumor was almost the size of a baseball.”

  His brows drop and he pinches his lips together. Tugging the blanket so it stretches across his lap too, he thinks about his next question before he asks it.

  “What was the worst part of all of it?”

  “You mean besides wondering if I was going to live or die?” I smirk.

  He frowns, hard, but doesn’t respond to my attempt to lighten the conversation.

  I let out a sigh. “I know it’s vain to say my hair, but I was a twenty-one-year-old college student, and losing my hair was traumatic. It was happening to me, and it placed a large blinking light over me letting everyone know I was sick. Lots of people have cancer and the outside world has no idea, but if it’s to the point of needing this life-saving treatment, obviously people choose life. Still . . . I’ve always had this messy mop of brown curly hair. It’s one of my favorite features about me, and losing it was hard.”

  “You do have beautiful hair, but you’re so much more beautiful than your hair.”

  His words hit their target, and my insides squeeze. His hand moves from the back of the couch, cradles my head gently, and then slides down my neck and over my shoulder before moving back to the couch. It’s the most intimately I’ve been touched in a long time, and he didn’t even really do anything.

  “I hated people saying I had a nice-shaped head, or I looked good bald, or they were certain they wouldn’t look as good as me. I didn’t choose the look, cancer chose it for me, and it was another reminder that all of it was out of my control.”

  “Yeah, I can see how that would be annoying.”

  “But it grew back, and like I said, I grew stronger.”

  “I didn’t know you before, but you are definitely a force to be reckoned with.” He reaches over and pulls on my earlobe.

  “A force,” I echo, and then a grin stretches across my face. “Like, ‘May the force be with you.’ I think I like that!”

  He grins and shakes his head at me. Reaching for the remote, he settles back into the couch and pulls me next to him. As he flips through the channels to find us something to watch, I can’t help but think he’s a force too, one I might not be strong enough to fight.

  Asparagus and Pea Soup

  ALL MORNING I’VE thought about how Meg opened up last night about having cancer. I’m sure I could have asked her before now, but it’s awkward and I never want to upset her.

  She doesn’t know that after Thanksgiving, when I first found out, I researched ovarian cancer and read as much as I could about it. We didn’t discuss the specifics, what stage she had, or what kind of surgery they performed, but I guess at the end of the day it doesn’t matter. She had this cancer and now she doesn’t. The fact that it’s considered rare, with less than two hundred thousand cases per year—it makes me angry that my girl went through this.

  And yes, I do think of her as mine, even though I know she’s not. Well, I think she kind of is, she just isn’t ready to acknowledge what’s staring her in the face. But back to the anger, something I’m trying to deal with logically.

  I’m certain a lot of the emotions I’m feeling about this are more of real-time emotions, ones typically felt while a loved one is going through this, but it’s real-time for me now and I’m having to internally deal with questions like Why her? Of course, I don’t want to verbalize any of this to her; she’s moved on, and I have no interest in dragging her backward to remember the scariest time of her life.

  Hearing her talk about what she went through does humble me. I know I’ve been a sad sack since Tampa, and I’ve been so wrapped up in my own life and my injury; after last night, I can’t help but wonder what she thinks of me. Yes, what she went through and what I’m going through are both life-changing, but thinking daily about how you might not live to see the next year is significantly different than thinking about what my next career path might be.

  I know she’s sympathetic, but does she think I’m being ridiculous for taking this so hard? It’s not like I can change how I feel. This sucks too, and I’m sad.

  Pulling into the college, I take in the sights and think about how this could have been my life: a military college. I was right to choose the path I did; I never would have been happy in this life. I needed bigger, freer, more. My personality has always been large, free-spirited, and I don’t respond well to people telling me what to do. I’ve always known this, and it’s too bad my father never has.

  Meg asked me the other day why I didn’t go to stay with my parents after the injury. As much as I love them, their routine is so rigid and boring it’s stifling. The walls would have closed in on me and I would have gone crazy if I had to sit there with them, eating at the same time every day and watching the same television programs. For a couple of days, it’s fine, but I can’t do it long-term. It’s not me, and any longer than a normal visit would have put me in flight mode from myself.

  I also knew if I was there, I would be missing out on something over here. Whether it was here in Charlesto
n or back in Tampa, I needed to be on this side of the country, just in case. As it turns out, Meg has her brunch coming up. I like being here with her and getting to be a part of it, even if it’s just a small part like tasting food.

  Food—just the thought has my stomach growling. It’s going to miss all her cooking when I head back to Tampa. Then again, as I run my hand over it and feel the slight change the food has already made, maybe not. Whatever, it’s worth it. I wouldn’t trade this time with her for anything.

  Parking the truck, I stare up at Seignious Hall, which houses the football coaches’ offices, the locker room, and a top-of-the-line training room. Mentally I begin preparing myself for the world of pain I know my friend Eddie is going to put me through.

  Still on crutches, I make my way into the building and into the weight room, where I scan over all the equipment. I’m happy to see Eddie is doing so well.

  “Hey, man, can I help you?” A kid over by the free weights that line the edge of the room looks my way.

  My attention snaps to his and I realize, while I’m lost in thought, he’s looking at me curiously like he knows me but isn’t sure where from. How long has he been staring at me?

  “Yeah, I’m looking for Eddie Bunton.”

  His brows rise as he looks me up and down, his gaze lingering just a clip on my leg. Suddenly one brow pops and his eyes widen slightly. He recognizes me, and his cheeks redden. “Sure. I’ll go get him for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  The kid scampers off, and suddenly I find myself nervous. I’ve somehow convinced myself that by coming to Charleston, between Meg and him, they’re going to make all this better, he’s going to make me better . . . but what if he can’t?

  Continuing to look around, my eyes catch on the large blue and white mural of an angry bulldog on the wall with #CitadelStrength stamped across its forehead. It’s fitting for this space, and I can’t help but feel nostalgic for my college days.

  “Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in. I swear I haven’t seen you in a month of Sundays.”

  Looking toward the voice, I let out a pent-up sigh as Eddie grins from ear to ear and walks straight for me.

  “Eddie.” I smile back, and he wraps me in a hug, patting me hard on the back.

  Over his shoulder, I see the kid is lingering behind to watch. I play my role, smile at him, and give him a nod. He breaks out into a toothy grin then heads back to the wall, leaving us.

  “Welcome to the Dawg Pound, my friend,” Eddie says, pulling back to give me a once-over. “I swear you’re even bigger than the last time I saw you.”

  A laugh bursts out. “Hopefully the good kind of big and not because I’ve been sitting on my ass for six weeks.”

  “Always the good kind, but now that you mention it . . .” His hand smacks me in the gut and I let out an oof while shoving him backward. “I’m happy you called.” His expression is genuine, and I feel more hope and less doom than I have in a long time.

  “I appreciate you taking the time to see me. I needed to get out of Tampa for a bit, need to try to get this”—I point to my leg—“back to some kind of normal before I return.”

  “I think we can do that.” His smile is reassuring.

  “Oh, before I forget, this is for you.” Bending down, I unzip my bag and pull out a plastic container of lemon poppy seed muffins that Meg made. I hand it to him, and his brows rise in interest.

  “What’s this?” he asks.

  “Muffins from Meg. She said to give them to you as an in-advance peace offering for the pain in the ass I’m probably going to be.”

  He laughs then says, “Meg,” turning her name over in his head. “The reason you’re in Charleston?”

  I shrug my shoulders and can’t help the small smile that forms.

  His smile widens. “What is she? Former cheerleader? Grad student? Super fan?” he teases.

  I laugh. “No. There’s nothing wrong with those, but it just so happens she’s a chef. She owns her own restaurant in the historic district.”

  “Wow . . .” he drawls, surprised. “I never thought I’d see the day, but then again, knowing your propensity to eat, she sounds like the perfect girl for you.”

  “It’s not like that,” I tell him. Although, after the last couple of days, I’m wishing even more that it was.

  “Well, whatever it is, I’m glad you’re here.” He claps me on the shoulder.

  “Me too.”

  “And if she feels the need to bake me more food, I won’t say no.”

  “Don’t tempt her—your whole office will be overflowing. She loves to cook.” An image of her in these ankle-heeled boots in the kitchen at OBA pops up in my mind. She was wearing skintight black jeans, a yellow T-shirt, and an apron with lemons on it. Never a chef coat, always an apron, and who knows, if I’m lucky, maybe one day I’ll get to see her in just the heels and the apron. I groan internally at the thought.

  “I’m going to drop this in my office. You head over there and sit on the table.”

  The table looks like any other therapy table, but anxiety rolls through my stomach as I set my stuff off to the side and climb on.

  “All right. Let’s take a look at you and see what’s going on,” he says as he returns and starts removing the knee immobilizer. “Obviously, you know recovery is possible, but I need you to be prepared for the common outcome that the injured knee does not regain its previous capacity to absorb stress. I’m going to do my best to help you get it back, but it’s going to be hard. Obviously, it’ll be fine for day-to-day life, but a lot of stress is placed here”—he taps the lateral side of my knee—“so playing at the level you were before . . . I’m just not so sure.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of,” I tell him, not meeting his eye and voicing my greatest fear.

  “But, if we take a conservative approach to rehabilitation during the early stages here, keeping range of motion limited and restricting weight-bearing exercises, I’m confident we can get you pretty close to your previous ability. No promises, but I’m in this if you are.”

  “I’m in it. I don’t know what else to do. Football is . . .”

  “I know.” He squeezes my shoulder as a heavy moment of silence falls over us. “How about you show me what the team trainer had you working on at home. If you’ve got good leg control through those quadriceps and leg raises, maybe we can ditch the crutches and the immobilizer and graduate to a hinged brace.”

  “Music to my ears.”

  “Yeah, you won’t be saying that once I’m done with you.” He chuckles.

  “I’m ready. The sooner I can get back to my team, to doing what I love, the better.”

  “All right then, let’s get to work.”

  Most of the workouts we do together are routine, basic knee rehabilitation exercises, but then to switch it up he has me on upper body and abs, too. This time he does call me fat, punching my stomach again, and then he puts me in the hydrotherapy tank to not only get some cardio in but also to start using my knee without restrictions. It’s here from the top of the machine that my phone pings with a notification.

  Meg posted a picture.

  Opening the app, I see her face scrunched up in the background like something smells while she’s dangling a pair of my tennis shoes in front of the camera. The shoes look huge, and the caption says: House guest.

  I’m not sure when she took the picture as she’s currently at work, but it’s funny nonetheless, and I laugh out loud. Quickly I type a reply: You know what they say about a guy with big feet . . . and I toss the phone down, grinning.

  At the end of the two hours, it’s the most exhausted I’ve felt in a long time, and the most excited.

  With a smile on my face, I think, I can do this.

  Lemon Poppy Seed Muffins

  TODAY HAS BEEN a great day. I feel like I’m floating on cloud nine, and that’s the best kind of feeling.

  First we hosted the local news channel this morning. They are out and about doing live,
on-location interviews with participants for the upcoming festival. They came in with their film crew, did a tour through the restaurant, spoke to Taylor and me, and sampled some of our more popular dishes. Immediately afterward, we were flooded with phone and online reservations.

  Next, I had been waiting for a call from the florist to confirm she can make the arrangements we want for the brunch, and she can. She is having orange blossom branches shipped in, and I’m so thrilled because they are perfect for the restaurant. They represent the name, and they are so fragrant I’m certain the dining room will smell divine. Everything seems to be coming together so nicely for the brunch next weekend. The menu is set, the food and wine are ordered, and the staff have all agreed to be here. I feel on top of things, and it feels good.

  Then the cherry on top of the sundae: at his usual time of dropping in, Jack sauntered in without his crutches and without the bulky knee brace. He mentioned he was seeing his friend today, but I had no idea this friend actually worked for The Citadel’s athletic department. He still favors the injured leg a bit, but seeing him walk unassisted and smiling was fantastic. Even just this small change for him is like some of the clouds surrounding him have receded.

  Now, I’m dressed up and headed out. There’s not one cloud in the sky, and the temperature is a perfect sixty-eight degrees.

  “I had no idea you were still going on these dates, and I don’t understand why,” Jack says to me as I bend over to fasten the buckle on a new pair of black strappy Jimmy Choo shoes I recently bought.

  “What do you mean?” I glance up at him. He’s standing directly in front of me, tossing a football in the air, and he’s scowling hard.

  “What I mean is, this whole dating thing was your resolution for last year. I thought you were done with it. Why are you still doing them?” He tucks the ball under his arm and then crosses them over his chest. He’s frowning at me, and I don’t like it.

  I also can’t tell what his problem is. He’s voiced his opinion about me going on these dates before, but he was never this serious. It’s almost like he’s mad at me.