Chapter 25 #2
While I wait for Anna, I fall into a rabbit hole of Jaguars’ social media.
I skip the highlights of past games—I’m not quite ready for those—but I screenshot photos of my husband with carefree abandon and save them to my phone.
When Anna comes downstairs, she leans over the back of the couch and peers at my screen.
“Come on,” she says. “Seriously? He’s your husband. Just have him text you a selfie.”
“But these shots are so good,” I say. “Their social media people are great at their jobs.” I scroll back up to an earlier post. “Look at this one of Miles. It’s such a good picture of him.” I hold out my phone, and she leans in to look, but she doesn’t seem all that impressed.
“I mean, sure. It’s a good photo,” she says. “But wouldn’t you rather look at the photos you don’t have to share with the rest of the world?”
I look back at my phone, noticing the thousands of likes and comments each of the posts I’m looking at have gotten. So many people seeing the same photos, probably admiring the same photos. I guess I see Anna’s point.
Fiona lets out a little whimper, and Anna circles the couch, coming around to gently scoop her out of my arms.
“She’s been a little squirmy the last few minutes,” I say, and Anna nods, fighting a yawn. “She probably needs to eat again.” She sits down on the opposite end of the couch and takes a minute to get Fiona situated for breastfeeding.
I stand and retrieve Anna’s giant water cup from the kitchen, refilling it with ice and fresh water, then I carry it back to her. She always gets thirsty when she’s nursing.
“You’re a gem,” she says, taking the cup and helping herself to a long drink.
“You’d think I’ve never had water before.
” She sets the water on the side table, then pats the couch cushion in between us.
“Come on. Let’s do something fun. The girls are asleep, and I really wanna binge the new Count of Monte Cristo series and eat an entire half gallon of ice cream directly out of the container.
Are you going to help me to do it, or what? ”
I retrieve my purse from the floor and tuck my phone inside, suddenly certain that a distraction is exactly what I need. “Yes, and absolutely yes,” I say. Then I head to the kitchen for the ice cream.
It’s after midnight when I finally get home from Anna’s. I don’t expect to hear from Carter, but after I feed Gordie and get ready for bed, I find a new text waiting for me.
Carter
Are you still up?
I snuggle under my covers and key out my response.
Sarah
I stayed late at Anna’s bingeing a new series with her, so I just got home.
Gordie says hello.
Carter
He’s with you now?
I take a quick photo of Gordie snuggled into the crook of my arm and send it to Carter.
Carter
I have never been so jealous of a cat.
Sarah
I’m jealous of YOU because now you have two selfies of me…and I have NONE of you…
Seconds later, a photo pops up.
Carter is sitting on the bed in what I’m guessing is his hotel room, a book open on his lap, annnnd he’s shirtless.
It’s not even fair how good he looks. He’s not flexing. Not posing. He’s just…reading. And it’s the sexiest thing I’ve seen all day.
Suddenly, I understand exactly what Anna meant about photos I don’t have to share with the general public. This picture of Carter is infinitely better than anything I’ve seen on social media. It feels intimate, completely private, and meant just for me.
Over the next week and a half, Carter and I text every single day. Sometimes, there’s only time for a message or two—I’m sure his schedule is grueling—but he always texts before he goes to sleep at night and again when he wakes up in the morning.
Most of what we talk about is completely random, even a little silly.
He tells me the story of having an entire interaction with a fan at a pre-game meet-and-greet, not realizing until the very end that she thought he was his brother the entire time.
He ended up signing Theo’s name when she asked for his autograph because he thought that would be kinder than embarrassing her by telling the truth.
I send him countless pictures of baby Fiona, who is growing and thriving and getting cuter every single day.
We talk about music and movies and books and crossword puzzles.
But there are three things we don’t talk about.
We don’t talk about my childhood.
We don’t talk about why I can’t watch hockey games.
And we don’t talk about the kiss we shared right before he left.
I know we will talk about these things. Of course we will.
I don’t think either of us wants to have an official define the relationship talk over text, or even over a phone call.
It makes sense we’re intentionally avoiding the subject.
But it still makes me antsy, more and more anxious the closer we get to him coming home.
I can’t stop thinking about the things I need to tell him that are going to be hard to say out loud.
My therapist, whom I’ve already talked to twice since Carter left, has made it clear that any successful path forward requires full transparency and honesty.
That means I have to tell him why watching hockey is so triggering.
Which means I have to tell him about my dad.
Miles won’t like it, but if I really am falling for Carter, then Miles doesn’t really get a say anymore.
The team arrives back in Atlanta just after two p.m. on the day of their final home game.
They head straight to the arena, so I don’t see Carter before I go to Anna’s to babysit.
I get there with plenty of extra time, guessing she’ll need it since this will be her first night out since Fiona was born.
I find her in her bedroom, flopped onto her bed next to a mountain of clothes. She’s wearing a pair of jeans, but only sort of wearing them. It doesn’t look like she was able to get them buttoned.
Fiona is in the bassinet sucking on a pacifier, and Poppy and Olive are in the bathroom sitting at Anna’s vanity. Poppy is giving Olive a makeover that’s going to be very fun to wash off.
“I’m sensing a fashion emergency,” I say to Anna as I drop onto the foot of her bed.
She lifts her head to look at me. “They won’t even button.” She picks up the sides of her pants as if to illustrate her point.
“Of course they won’t button,” I say. “You had a baby three weeks ago.”
“So what do I do, then?” she asks. “I’m supposed to look cute at games. I can’t go in pants with an elastic waist. That’s against all kinds of rules.”
“No one is going to be inspecting your pants,” I say. “Wear your favorite leggings with a pair of boots and the oversized navy sweater you love so much.”
She pushes up onto her elbows. “That’s actually not a bad idea.”
“See? I’m only terrible at fashion when I’m having a crisis. Most of the time, I manage just fine.”
Anna stands and moves into her closet. “Have you heard from Carter? Did the team get in okay?” she calls from inside.
“They did. They’re already at the Vortex. You haven’t heard from Miles?”
“Nah, but I usually don’t on gamedays,” she says. “He says it messes with his focus.” She comes back out of her closet with the new outfit on—the one I suggested. “What do you think?” she asks.
“It’s perfect,” I say. “You look great.”
I glance at my watch, all too aware that I’m going to see Carter tonight.
I just have to kill seven hours first.
The girls, at least, make that a lot easier. Anna nurses Fiona right before she leaves, and there’s a stockpile of milk in the fridge, but she’s still in a fussy mood, so juggling the older girls and getting them into bed while keeping Fiona happy takes all my focus.
I’m upstairs trying to coax Olive into her big girl bed when the game starts. I manage to keep one eye on the score, but I’m still distracted, which only makes the time pass more quickly.
I finally drop onto the couch just before nine and read through the game highlights, scanning for Carter’s name. Poppy and Olive are finally asleep, and Fiona is in the swing right next to me, still awake, but not fussing, which I’m taking as a win.
I reach for the TV remote, thinking I can at least try to watch something even if I can’t truly focus, but then my phone rings.
“Hey,” Anna says as soon as I pick up. Based on the sounds coming through the phone, she’s still at the game.
“Hey. What’s up?”
“Hang on,” she says to me, then there’s movement, some sort of shifting, before she says, “I know. I’ve got her on the phone right now. I will. I’ll tell her.”
My heart starts pounding, and I sit up a little taller. She’ll tell me what? An ache of worry makes my stomach tighten, and I suddenly wish that I had gone to the game so I would know, right this second, that Carter is okay.
I need eyes on my husband. Not just words coming through a phone.
“Anna,” I say, panic clawing at my throat. “What is it? Is it Carter? Please just tell me if my husband is hurt.”
“Carter’s fine,” she says. “Breathe, Sarah. He’s okay.”
I do breathe, and tears inexplicably spring to my eyes. “Is it Miles?”
“Miles is fine too. Sarah, it’s Theo,” she says. “And it’s pretty bad. Carter has to finish the game, but I’m sure he’ll head to the hospital as soon as he can. I’m leaving the Vortex now, and I’m coming straight home. I thought you might want to meet Carter there.”