Chapter 50
Robert
Ithink it’s finally finished.
For a man who makes a living putting words into the world, this feels like the hardest one I’ve ever written
If I stare at it much longer, I’ll never post it. I’ll let it rot in my hard drive forever.
That’s what the old me would’ve done—pick it apart until it’s sterile, polished, safe. But she doesn’t need safe. She deserves honest.
Rhiannon stayed over last night and very reluctantly left for her preseason game this evening after a lazy day in bed and a pregame protein fuel-up. For once, I didn’t check my email, didn’t think about drafts or deadlines. She has this way of making the noise stop.
I’ll be heading to the pitch soon, but I needed to get my thoughts out on the page before I left. And with a trembling hand, I suck in a quivering breath and hit Post to share what I’ve written on the internet.
It’s the same motion that once wrecked everything—a single click. Funny how something that small can ruin or redeem you.
She might still kill me.
It might be the straw that breaks the camel’s back. Third strike and we’re done.
She was so mad about the article Pete wrote because she finally felt like I’d seen her, the real her, and not how the media and her dad have portrayed her to be, and then I made her a story.
Well, today I’m making her a story for sure. Not the same story as everyone else has made her, however. The world needs to know how amazing my girlfriend is, and there’s no better person to share who she really is than the man who really loves her.
Maybe this post won’t fix everything between us, but it’s the truth—and for once, that feels like enough. Maybe this is what journalism was supposed to be all along—telling the truth about the people who make us want to be better.
Even if she is a plant killer.