Wade #2
Tess deserves a man who can give her the life she wants.
Someone her own age who can keep up for thirty years and doesn't need to worry about what he looks like doing it.
Somebody who can be there for her instead of on the road hauling freight to keep the lights on.
Somebody smart like her, who can hand her a real future.
Like I’ve always said, she deserves a guy who writes her love letters and can spoil her rotten.
The most loving thing I can do is step back and let her have that life with someone more suitable.
By the time she's back under the canopy, alert, hair damp from the water she splashed on her face in the fairground bathroom, the brisket's at 195 internal and the bark is exactly where I want it—dark, tacky, and holding together when I press it.
This is the window where I lost it last year, too tired to feel the difference between patience and negligence.
She's pulling the butcher paper and foil while I probe the flat one more time.
"Now?" she asks.
"Now."
We work fast. She tears the paper, I lift the brisket, and we're wrapping, her holding the edges taut while I roll, when the foil catches on the edge of the cutting board and rips. Enough to let precious jus run across the paper and drip off the table onto the ground. That’s three, maybe four ounces of liquid I can't get back.
She grabs a towel. "I've got it—"
"Don't." I hear it leave my mouth, clipped and hard. "Just hold the paper and don't move."
She holds and I re-wrap. It's fine. It's recoverable. To be honest, the brisket isn’t ruined losing four ounces of jus.
But I'm upset. "You have to watch the edges, Tess. I told you, the foil goes under the paper, not on top, and you pull toward you, not away. If we'd lost that whole wrap we're starting over with ten minutes and no margin."
"I know—"
"No, you obviously don’t know. Stupid mistakes can’t happen. This isn't practice anymore."
As soon as the words are out, I realize they’re wrong. I don’t know what my problem is. She's standing right there being perfectly good at this and it’s just making everything harder.
She sets the towel down and glares up at me with those damn blue-green eyes that I could live in.
"I understand the pressure," she says, calmly. "And I'm letting this one go, Wade.” She pauses to swallow. “But if you ever talk to me in such a condescending way again, it'll be the last time I cook with you. Period."
Then she picks up the foil and tapes it where I need it and goes back to work.
The ground drops out from under me. My hands keep moving because they have to, but something in my chest crumbles. I close my eyes and summon the strength to keep going.
The ribs go on at six, the chicken at nine, and then there's nothing left but the turn-in windows—four of them, ten minutes each, starting at noon.
And the clock sits on the back of my skull like a fist.
Tess and I work beautifully together and it's awful. Every handoff is clean, every temp check called out and confirmed, her hands moving through the prep with a competence that makes me want to break things and crawl on the ground in front of her groveling at the same time.
We don't make eye contact.
We don't touch.
We're the best team on this row and I'd give the trophy back to undo what I said.
The first three turn-ins blur together. I can barely hold onto any of it. At this point, I’m going by feel, since I’ve done this so many times, I just let my hands go.
My phone goes off and it’s a text from Riley.
dad. update me IMMEDIATELY. also mackenzie says hi and that you owe her mom a brisket for hosting me this weekend
are you winning? don't lie to me i'll know
turn-ins almost done. brisket's up next. tell macKenzie's mom she's getting a brisket and a thank you card.
a thank you card?? who are you
I almost smile.
how’s ms fields doing?
I tuck my phone back in my pocket.
The brisket window opens at one-thirty, and I pull it from the Cambro, unwrap it, and the bark holds. The smoke ring lovely. The flat slices clean and the point pulls apart in ribbons. I fan six slices in the turn-in box, garnish tight, and Tess walks it to the tent.
I watch her go. Her hands, steady around the box. Her back, straight. She’s a natural.
Once the box is gone, we’re officially done.
I wipe the sweat off my brow.
“Great job, Tess,” I say.
“Thank you,” she replies, evenly.
We start cleaning up, putting the fire out, and closing the coolers. I’m wiping down a table, when my hand bumps into hers.
"Tess," I say, and she turns to me. "I'm sorry, what I said to you this morning was uncalled for. You didn't deserve it, and the foil wasn't the problem."
“What was the problem, then?” she asks.
I rub the back of my neck. My eyes burn from smoke and adrenaline.
"Last night, after you went to the truck to sleep, I sat at that fire talking myself into letting you go.
I told myself you should have everything you described—the kid, the house, the full life—with somebody your own age.
Somebody smarter. Somebody more suited to you, who could hand it to you instead of weighing you down.
" My voice cracks. "I dressed it up as doing right by you.
But it was only cowardice wearing fancier clothes. "
She’s furrowing her brow.
"But the thought of losing you took the ground out from under me. I've never felt this way about anyone…not once, not even my ex…and it's been the best time of my life."
Her eyes are shining, now.
"I don't want to step back. I don't want to be big enough to let you go. Whatever you want, however many kids, however that looks, let me have that with you. I’ll be the most active older dad you’ve ever seen.
" My throat is raw. "You and a full house, whatever shape it takes, is bigger than any dream I've chased.
Including the one on that table over there right now. "
"Wade…"
"I love you," I blurt out. "I don’t care if it’s too soon. I needed to tell you.”
She steps closer and jumps into my arms, putting us face to face. "I love you, too," she says. "You big, sexy, silly man."
I kiss her, the fairground noise falling away.
When we break apart she's smiling, and I'm not going to let go of her ever.
The sun is dropping by the time they call everyone to the grandstand for awards, and every pitmaster is on edge pretending to be relaxed.
Tess is next to me, her knee against mine. My hand is on her thigh and I don't have any intention of moving it.
They start with individual categories. Chicken goes to a team from Missoula. Ribs—a crew from Helena, four-time competitors, good for them. I clap, and my palms are numb.
Pork goes to us.
Tess grabs my arm. I nod like it's normal and my heart is trying to leave my body through my ears.
Then the Grand Champion.
The announcer says Wade’s World and anything else might as well be underwater.
I don't move. Tess's hand is on my forearm, squeezing, and I can hear her saying my name, and the people around us are clapping, and I stand up because my legs seem to know what I need to do.
I pull Tess with me and we walk to the front. Somebody puts a trophy in my hands. It's really heavy. They give the plaque to Tess, and see our team name on it and the words Grand Champion and a date I'll remember for the rest of my life.
Behind the stage, the sponsor rep in the branded polo shakes my hand and puts a card in my palm and says he'll call Monday. He says the word season and something about entry fees and equipment and I nod and put the card in my back pocket because I can't process anything right now.
I'm holding the trophy and smiling at Tess.
“You did it, Wade!” she says, grinning up at me.
“We did it, baby girl,” I say.
The best prize isn’t the one in my hands, it’s the this woman who has my heart.