CHAPTER 13 #2
Moving to my worktable, I pull away a sheet of kraft paper that I placed to keep dust and bugs off the latest paver stone I’ve been working on.
It’s good, but I don’t know if it’s good enough.
I could break it up and start all over again, but it took me days to decide how I wanted the pieces laid out before I set the mold.
Grabbing a piece of sandpaper, I set to smoothing out the rough bits of the Sakrete one more time.
This was always busywork for me, a project to keep boredom at bay.
Remembering how Remy fawned over my stones, however, I’m sickened by how I’ve taken for granted small achievements.
I’m not DaVinci or anything, but I’ve spent years essentially pouting over what I’m not and what I haven’t done, never stopping to appreciate what I can do.
What I am. Who I am. I can’t say I’m thrilled with who I am, but I’d rather buy a beer for today-Chris than last-year-Chris.
Well, a soda rather. I mean…maybe just living is enough.
Because it’s not always easy. Is it? I think I’m proof of that if nothing else.
Speaking of new ambitions… I pull my phone out of my pocket and call Gale to come back inside so I can close out some of the horrid pressure building outside. Pulling up my email, my steps falter just as I reach the door to the living room.
Damn. They answered.
My pulse flickers in anticipation, opening the email from the communications director of the college.
I’m going to owe the editor of the Gazette dinner for telling me about this opportunity if they select me.
I still don’t know how I’ll manage speaking in front of a classroom about sports writing, but pushing my boundaries has apparently become my new thing.
I only make it halfway to my recliner. That lightness that so happily made a home in my chest of late dims like no one left in the world believes in fairies.
It’s not because they didn’t select me for their sports writing seminar—which has been delayed until next semester—that has me at a standstill.
It’s what comes after: a big, fat bargaining chip.
At least, that’s how I see it. The words feel like a cruel joke.
Given your alumnus status and NFL career experience, we would be honored if you would consider speaking at this year’s upcoming pre-winter break safety briefing.
Many of our students will be faced with situations and decisions during the holidays that could put them and others in harm’s way.
As a former Panther, we feel that our students will find you relatable and inspiring.
Our safety briefing will include the topics of alcohol and substance abuse, driving under the influence, situational awareness, and taking proactive safety measures.
If you would be comfortable sharing some of your experiences and the trials you faced on any of these topics that may benefit the students as they continue on their college journey, we would be greatly appreciative to have you as our host.
Well…
How about that?
I saw a western movie once where a parched prisoner was about to be given a drink of water, only to have it spilled on the ground in front of him, just out of reach.
The semblance of accomplishment I’ve felt I’ve achieved lately threatens to topple off a high shelf and crash to the floor as I stare at the invitation. My sins will never leave me, will they?
I quit giving in to drinking, quit moping on my ass, quit trying to punish Remy for my bitterness, but none of it matters.
Not when you take away every brick I manage to lay, because behind the facade, my crimes will always be there.
Me…barreling off the road, smashing into a guardrail, pinned inside a car, blasted all over the news, and crushing the adoration of fans.
Fuck. I wish their invitation were on a piece of paper so I could wad it up, pitch it across the room, and watch Gale maul it into a sloppy mess of sogginess.
I move to my chair, suddenly heavier than I’ve felt in months. I’m so fucking tired of being mad. I don’t want to be angry anymore. I don’t want to hate myself. Hate life. Hate the dark days when I have to plaster myself to a heating pad or an ice pack. I just want…some sunshine.
Clicking the power button on my heating pad, I close my eyes and brace for the storm, trying not to grind my teeth when the rogue spikes of pain protest against the warmth like kernels of corn popping in an oil pan. I don’t even like my dentist enough for how much I’ve had to shell out to him.
Something damp saturates the side of my leg, applying pressure. I don’t have to crack an eye to know it’s my trusty companion. I reach out, giving her ears a scratch, then petting her softly to ease her protector instincts. I’m sure she could use a night off.
I try to picture joyful things: warmth and light.
Food for the soul, to feed the mind, to overpower my agony, both physical and emotional.
Big feelings, I muse, grateful for something to make me smile.
My mind latches onto that radiant luminosity, taking me across town to its source.
It soothes my agitation over my failed mission of getting the world to forget all about me and my ‘trials.’
He didn’t forget me.
But he doesn’t see football, or an entitled drunk driver. He just sees me.
If the sun can peek through a storm cloud, does that mean they can co-exist? Does the cloud become less of a cloud, evaporating until finally the darkness is gone? If so, what the heck is in it for the sun? A sweet-as-hell, witty, sexy, kind-hearted sun.
I let out a huff to rival Gale’s when Mom visits and tries to put one of those stupid doggy bandanas on her. What does it matter? Even if the sun ended up wanting the ‘grumpy asshole’ cloud, the cloud doesn’t even know how to date.