All week I have watched her, much closer than I did before, to try to figure out what is going on in her head, and what I’ve realized is she keeps everything surface level. I’m not surprised I didn’t pick up on this before; in many ways, I guess I am the same way, but with her it just seems like so much more. Or should I say less?
Yes, she is happy all the time, and one of the things I adore about her is how she finds the beautiful even in the ugly, but that’s it. Other than the incident over the flowers, in the last nine months, I’ve never seen any other emotion from her. She’s calm, easygoing, and never lets things ruffle her feathers or get her riled up. Things just tend to be smooth around her all the time. There’s never any conflict, she diffuses anything that could potentially be uncomfortable, and she’s just sailing through day by day.
Is it that she thinks something will change? I mean from my standpoint, things would only get better, so is she afraid of being hurt? Was she hurt before? She’s never alluded to anything happening in the past, but maybe she just hasn’t told me. I know she cares for me; I’ve had plenty of female friends over the years, and none of them have ever looked at me like she does. There’s also the fact of how she was with me on Sunday night. She didn’t act or look like she was just trying to get it out of her system. She clung to me as tightly as I did to her, so what is it?
It can’t be the distance when I rejoin the Tampa team. That’s just a tiny hiccup in the grand scheme of things, and we would figure it out, like we did before. Only this time, I would know she’s mine versus wondering if she ever would be, and it’s not like it would be forever. I only have maybe a few more years left in the league.
So, I’m back to my original question of why.
“I don’t think it’s possible for anyone to scowl harder than you are right now. What gives?” Eddie asks as he comes to stand next to me.
“Nothing,” I mumble.
Looking away from him, I stare down at the pool of ice water I’m sitting in and frown. The timer reads five more minutes.
Since the day I arrived and we changed the brace I’m wearing, my knee has had swelling. In fact, I’m certain it’s had swelling since the minute it was hit, and it just won’t go away. Sometimes in the mornings, it’s a little less, but by bedtime it’s so angry at me I find I’m having to take prescription medication to reduce the inflammation.
I know it’s related to mechanical stress, but my quadriceps and other related muscles are weakening to the point where I’m off balance from one leg to the other. I feel off, and it sucks. From gait and range of motion to strength and stability, none of it feels right, and it has me worried. I’m too old for this to be happening in my career. Rationally I know it’s only been two months and the healing is going to take a substantial amount of time, but even I know if I can only get back to eighty percent, odds are I’m going to be replaced. Younger, faster, eager—if I were a coach, that’s what I would be looking for. The team is a business, and they have to run it as one.
“Sure doesn’t look like nothing. Besides, you’ve been quiet and stuck in your head. Look, I know you hate this, but I promise there has been gradual improvement in the stability of your knee. You know it takes time.”
I know it does, but it’s taking a lot of time, and I’ve never been one to sit still. Patience is hard for me, and between this, the possibility of losing my job, and Meg, I’m losing my mind. I don’t like how any of it feels, physically, emotionally, or mentally. It’s making me restless in my own skin, and I want to feel settled. Right now, I can only handle one thing at a time, and it feels like all aspects are precarious.
I don’t answer him, and he accepts the silence as he claps me on the shoulder and just stands next to me.
“Damn, what did she do to these to make them so good?” He holds up one of the brownies Meg made for him.
“I think it’s just the pecans, but who knows. For some reason, all her food tastes better than normal. She likes to cook for people she cares about. After the all-night flower escapade, you’re officially in the inner circle. Get used to it.”
“No wonder you’re wanting to be in the hydrotherapy tank all the time—need to burn off all the extra calories she’s been filling you with.” He chuckles and takes another bite.
“Meg says we should count memories, not calories.” I recite her mantra, remembering her face when we were outside a couple of weeks ago eating in the back yard. She had made us a blackened shrimp and alfredo pasta dish, and I was staring down at the plate like it was offensive when she laughed next to me. She was so relaxed, so carefree, and so beautiful. She slurped up the noodles, grinning, and I remember thinking I could do this with her forever. I guess she’s right—that dish will always be associated with a memory, a memory I want more of.
“Does she now?” He smirks, thinking all is well at home with us. If only he knew, but then again knew what? That she doesn’t want me the way I want her?
I flip him off, and he laughs, attracting the attention of others in the training room, including the head football coach Brick Meyers.
“Jack.” He wanders over and glances at the brownie Eddie is eating.
“My office,” he mumbles between bites, tilting his head. “Meg made them.” Over the last week, Meg has become a legend with her goodies. Now, when people see me, they look for a plate, too.
Coach’s eyes flare a bit in excitement then turn back to me. “You got a few minutes before you head out today?” he asks.
“Of course,” I answer him.
They’ve been so welcoming and accommodating to me, and I immediately offered to help in any way I could while I was here. Coach has taken me up on this, and we’ve spent a lot of time reviewing their playbook, going over ideas on how to teach different technical and strategic aspects of offensive football to his players, and looking at talent videos of potential players as they head into their senior year of high school.
To tell the truth, it’s been fun. When I left Tampa, I felt disconnected from my team, but here I’ve been absorbed into theirs, not only by the staff but also by the players, who now feel comfortable enough to come up and say hello. It’s noise, and I like the noise.
“Great. Whenever you’re ready, you know where to find me,” he says as he turns for Eddie’s office to snatch a brownie.
“Three more minutes,” Eddie tells me as he glances down at the timer.
“Got it.” I nod as he wanders off to see to a kid who’s been dealing with a tight hamstring.
Everything takes time; I know it does. I just need to keep reminding myself to not let my heart outpace my head. Before I can change my mind, I grab my phone off the ledge next to the tub, take a photo of my legs under the water, and caption it with this: Some things are worth the wait.
It’ll be a constant reminder for me, plus, she’s a smart girl. I hope she reads between the lines.
Southern Pecan Brownies
THINGS ARE NOT going well.
It was stupid of me to think things would stay the same after we spent the night together. We agreed to just once, and although we’ve both kept our end of the deal, we’ve been off since the morning after, and I don’t know how to get us back to what feels like normal. It’s like this wall has gone up between us, and as much as we are moving through the days together like always, he now feels more like a roommate than my best friend, and I don’t like it. It’s almost like his behavior is a polite formality versus what it was before: open, engaging, and cozy.
I just don’t understand what he wants from me.
I saw the picture he posted on social media last weekend, and it did stir emotions in me, but not the good kind. Granted, I may be taking it personally because things feel off when the reality is the photo might have had nothing to do with me, but I don’t think that’s the case. He knows I don’t want a relationship, knows I like the way things are, so I’m not sure what he’s waiting for. It makes me angry, because I feel like he’s not taking me seriously, and I don’t like f
eeling like this, especially when it comes to him. Normally I do pretty well at not worrying about what others think of me, but with him it’s different.
He is different.
He’s important to me—very important—and other than Shelby and Lexi, I’ve never had a friend like him.
Because of that fact, I’m trying to not feel completely consumed by how this shift is affecting just me, trying to be sensitive to how he feels as well. Maybe Shelby was right, but then again, he’s got a lot going on right now. We’ll get through this; I know we will.
“Hey, how about we get out of the house tonight?” I say as I come up behind him. He’s sitting on the couch in the same spot he’s been in for what seems like weeks now, and I’m not sure what to do with him. I’m starting to feel a little irritated toward his overall depressed mood, though I feel that’s unfair because we all handle things differently and in our own time. But I mean . . . come on. He should be over the shock of his injured knee by now and moving toward a better mental state.
My hand settles on his shoulder, and I realize it’s the first bit of contact we’ve had in two weeks. My fingers tingle at the warmth coming through his shirt.
“What did you have in mind?” he asks, his voice rough, his eyes glued to the sports channel.
I know he’s not immune to the fact that he’s a Debbie Downer. He’s tried to be happy for me, especially after the great reviews we received from the festival brunch, but it’s like no matter how hard he tries, he’s just not. I’m certain most of it has to do with his knee and the uncertainty of what’s to come, but I also know deep down some of it is because of me. I hate this.
“There’s a place two miles north of Folly Beach that serves the best Frogmore stew. They’re really known for their oysters, but it’s not the right season, so we’ll have to go back another time for those.”
Another time. Oyster season is roughly six months away, and that’s such a long time from now. Am I planning on him being here in six months? Is he planning on being here in six months? If—no, when he heads back to Tampa, that will interfere with his season, so I doubt it, and the sudden thought of him leaving has me feeling off-kilter. It’s not a subject we’ve talked about, but we probably should soon. He isn’t going to stay here forever, and I’m certain he has an idea of when he plans to head back.
“What exactly is Frogmore stew?” He looks up at me. His eyes are shadowed with stress and unhappiness, and the scruff on his face is at least three days old.
“It’s another term for a low-country boil. You know: shrimp, sausage, corn, potatoes, et cetera. They also have great hushpuppies.” My hand runs across his back as I move to the end of the couch and sit on the armrest.
There’s a moment of silence between us as we stare at each other, and then his nostrils flare as he takes in a breath of air and says, “Sounds good.”
“I think so.” I give him a small encouraging smile. He reaches for the remote to flip off the television as I glance down and see he’s wearing old baggy sweatpants and a T-shirt that’s seen better days. Getting him out of the house is definitely going to be good for him, so I say, “Get dressed, and we’ll leave in twenty.”
Mostly, the drive out to the restaurant is quiet. We decided to take his truck since he fits more comfortably in it than in my car, and he lets me drive. He’s slipped on a clean shirt with a pair of jeans, and he attempted to style his hair. He looks inviting and familiar, and it creates an ache in my chest, a desire to climb over, sit in his lap, and be hugged by him. Again, I hate this place we’re in now. Even so, it’s going to be a beautiful night, so we roll down the windows to let the salty air blow in. I think the fresh air will be good for him, good for us. Maybe it’ll lift his spirits, at least that’s what I’m hoping.
After we’re seated at a table on the outside deck that overlooks the low country, I bite the bullet on trying to get to the bottom of this awkwardness between us. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on in your head?” I ask him quietly.
His gaze shifts to find mine and he frowns. Picking up the bottle of beer the waitress dropped off, he takes a sip before answering me, never breaking eye contact. “No, not really.”
My stomach dips at his focus on me, at his non-answer, and my lips press together in a line. Of course he doesn’t want to talk; he hasn’t for a while now, so why did I think he would? Maybe coming out here was a mistake. Glancing past his shoulder, I look toward the horizon, which is starting to shade with the early colors of night, and I try to think of something else that might open him up without his mood continuing to pull me down.
“How’s the therapy going with Eddie? You saw him today, right?” A breeze blows across the water, bringing with it the constant lingering odor of the pluff mud. To most it smells gross, like sulfur, but to me it smells like home.
“I did, and it’s not going well.” Unconsciously, his left hand reaches under the table and he begins to rub his knee. I noticed more so this week that he’s been alternating ice and heat rather frequently, and I also spotted a pill bottle on the counter that’s his.
My heart hurts for him at this admission. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know, and you haven’t said anything.”
His eyes lower to the table and his shoulders droop. Seeing him like this, I’m again taken aback by how different he was at the party and Thanksgiving versus now.
“Yeah. It’s been almost three months.” He shakes his head. “I expected there to be some swelling, but not this much.” He leans back in his chair and lets out a sigh.
“Nothing went wrong with the surgery, did it?” I hadn’t considered the possibility that he wasn’t put back together perfectly.
“No, they repaired it like they were supposed to. Sometimes there’s just chronic swelling, and that’s where I’m at. It makes it hard for me to rehab it when structurally it can’t handle the stress right now.”
“Why haven’t you mentioned any of this to me?”
He shrugs his shoulders and his eyes find mine. “Because every day when I wake up, I pray it’s finally going to be the day it’s gone.”
Hope. He’s hanging on to hope, and I understand that feeling from seven years ago. When everything is uncertain and you’re stuck in this limbo phase not knowing what’s going to happen next, hope is really the only tangible emotion one can hang on to. You have to.
“Is there anything I can be doing to help you? Help you wrap it, help you more around the house so you stay off it, or maybe massage it?” I think back to how people offered to help me, but really, I wish they had just been proactive and done things. I should have been doing more for him, should have recognized that he needs more instead of steering clear while he dealt with it. Inwardly, I groan, and guilt assaults me as I think about him climbing trees to cut down flowers for me. I’m certain that didn’t help.
It’s then his eyes brighten a little and he chuckles. “Meg, if there’s something on me that’s going to be massaged, it’s not going to be my knee,” he teases.
And there he is—there’s my cocky guy. An instant blush burns up my neck and into my cheeks as my jaw drops.
He laughs and reaches across the table for my hand, my heart fluttering at the contact. I know it shouldn’t, but the tiny connection between us feels nice and I realize I kind of needed it. I need him to be his sexy, charming self. The Jack from before our night together never would have hesitated to touch me, and since then he has.
“Sorry, I couldn’t resist.” He grins, and his dimples make a tiny appearance. “You set yourself up for that one.”
Unable to speak over my emotions, I just shake my head at him, and we both smile.
“You are beautiful,” he says, his eyes trailing over the details of my face. My soul sings at his kind words.
“Thank you. You are too,” I tell him, and he is. He’s so beautiful.
Maybe it wasn’t just him who needed a night out of the house. I’m thinking I did too.
We continue talking about his knee
and all the things that happened at the restaurant this week, but our conversation is now lighter, warmer, easier. When the waitress brings our dinner, we reluctantly separate our hands and go about eating our food. It’s a meal with him I know I’ll remember for a long time.
Afterward, we cash out and wander over to the outside bar. Although we’re facing the east, the view still makes for a pretty sunset, and he holds up his phone to take a selfie of us. I’m staring off into the distance while he’s staring at me, and he captions it: Such a beautiful view.
Finding my hand, his fingers thread through mine, and he gently closes them together. I’ve held his hand plenty of times over the last couple of months, but this feels different. Good different. Scary different. Gray area different. Maybe it’s that we need this after the last couple of weeks, or maybe this is just how we always were; I’m not sure, but I do know I don’t want to let go, even if I should.
“Thank you for bringing me here tonight. You were right about getting me out of the house. I know I haven’t been myself lately . . . I’ll try harder.”
Turning to face him, I look up at him as he looks down at me, and my free hand falls to his waist. “Jack, no one is asking you to be one way or another. Just be you, okay?”
Different emotions coast through his eyes before he clears them and finally says, “Okay.”
“And don’t shut me out. Talk to me.” I take a step closer to him, hoping he acknowledges that I’m serious. I want to hear what’s on his mind, on his heart.
“I will. I promise,” he says quietly, his gaze dropping to my mouth.
I should move back, I know I should, but I just can’t.
Slowly, he reaches up and wraps his hand around my face. His thumb sweeps back and forth across my cheek and my lips part as my eyes flutter shut. I know he wants to kiss me, and I want to kiss him just as much, my body telling him so as it sways his way. Hesitantly or just slowly, I’m not sure which, he lowers his head and kisses me so sweetly. With his lips lightly pressing into mine, the vulnerability and intimacy behind it feels real, like real on a whole new level I’m not sure what to do with but don’t want to turn away from.
Lessons in Lemonade Page 18
