KNIGHT
Chapter Thirty-Five
Sullivan’s got Deandre dealing with this. With me as I swing wildly back and forth between denial and devastation. I. Do. Not. Know. How. To. Cope. With. This.
Those words are on my tongue, on my mind, maybe tattooed on the backs of my hands.
Someone, not me, books a flight that I somehow wind up on, sitting between Dillon and Derek who are being pretty stoic, all things considered.
Dillon cries some, but he’s a quiet crier.
Silent, even. I’m not understanding it. A flash of reality hits me once we’re in the car on the way from the airport.
I’m trying to text Sullivan when a news piece about how the death of Eric Winters has blindsided the sports world flashes on my screen.
Derek takes the phone out of my hand before I get a chance to read the article.
I still don’t know what happened. Heart attack. Died. Nothing they could do. But why the fuck not?
Still, I don’t try to get the phone back from Derek. The news is sinking in slowly. Dad is dead. And yet, that part of it makes no sense either.
“Can you let Sullivan know I’m here? Or tell Deandre to?”
Deandre’s voice, deep and obvious, comes from the front seat of the Uber. “I’ll text him. He’ll be here tomorrow, remember?”
No. I didn’t remember that. But good. Good because as unpredictable as he is, Sullivan makes sense to me. He makes sense the way football does. He’s the thing I’m meant to do. What I was born for, no matter what Dad thinks.
Thought?
No. None of this can be right. I’m so fucking confused.
If he were dead, I’d be crying, wouldn’t I?
I know how to cry. I’ve done it plenty—usually in private, though.
Maybe that’s why I’m not crying. Too many people.
Or maybe this is all some stupid excuse to get me here a week before I was planning to be here.
Though, that doesn’t explain why Deandre’s here. He’s never come home with me. But maybe I’m misunderstanding something. Maybe Derek was talking. We’ve all got Sullivan’s number. He’s our friend.
“Why didn’t he come with me?” I ask.
“The flight only had four sets left. He wanted me to stay with you.”
Yeah, that’s definitely D. He’s turned to look at me now from the front seat. He’s for sure here. “That sounds like him,” I say, and I’m quiet for a second, and then I add, again in total confusion. “But he’s my boyfriend.”
“Exactly.” Derek speaks up as he sometimes—rarely—does. “And we’re the only ones who know that right now.”
“I don’t care who knows that,” I say. This argument is one I can do. I’ve had this one. I know how it goes.
“One thing at a time,” Derek says.
“Exactly,” Deandre adds.
Dillon sniffs.
No one wants to argue apparently, because how can I argue with that?
“Can I have my phone back please? I want to call him.”
Derek hands it back to me, and I immediately tap Sullivan’s contact. He answers on the first ring.
“Why aren’t you here?” I ask before he can even say hello.
“I’ll be there first thing tomorrow.”
“What does first thing mean? And what does ‘there’ mean. Are you coming to the house?”
“I’ll be at my house, but—”
“You should—why aren’t you with me right now?” Okay, yeah, I heard how pathetic that sounded.
That’s when I notice he’s crying. It’s in the throatiness of his voice and the little sniffs. “Are you okay?” I ask.
“Knight…” he says, and chokes on a breath. “I’m gonna be there as soon as I can. I love you.”
“It doesn’t feel like it,” I say.
“I know. I’m sorry. But I love you. I’ll stay on the phone with you the rest of the day if you want.”
“I want you here.”
“I’m coming. I promise.”
“I can’t do this,” I tell him.
“You can. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.”
“That’s bullshit. You’re so much stronger than me. You should be here.”
“I’m here,” he says softly and doesn’t hang up. “I’m right here.”
There’s press outside the house when we arrive, not a ton, but enough that the car has to wait for them to move out of the way as we pull up the drive.
I keep my head down, my phone pressed to my ear as we pile out of the car and head for the front door.
It opens just before anyone can reach for the latch, and my uncle Jake is there, his face drawn with grief and concern, maybe some relief.
“I’ll call you back,” I say moodily to Sullivan before hanging up the phone and accepting my uncle’s embrace. When his arms wrap around me, and I hear his whispered, “I’m so sorry,” and he feels and sounds so much like my father, that’s when I start crying, and I pretty much don’t stop.
The day is the worst of my life. I’ll never, ever forget the way it feels to be punched in the chest—the gut—the face with such acute, bitter grief. And I thought I could take a hit.
Not like this.
The only person who has even half their shit together is my uncle’s wife, Sarah. She and some woman I’ve never seen before hold the drippy, sobbing mess of the rest of us together somehow by walking us through the day, gently telling us what’s next—funeral home tomorrow—dinner, now. Sleep, soon.
Deandre plays the functional version of me, processing facts in real time, making sure I’m where I’m supposed to be. Table. Shower. Bed. Alarm set for eight.
Sullivan isn’t crying when I call him back, but I can’t seem to stop.
I know more now about what happened. Found cold and dead by my mother who woke up with him like that next to her. He died in his fucking sleep. And that’s what they want me to do now. Sleep.
“I don’t know how I’m supposed to do that. Their room is like—right there. My mom won’t even go in it. Do you think she’s gonna sell the house?”
I think I’m allowed to be all over the place.
Sullivan says I am, and so I scatter, bits and pieces of things that happened throughout this horrible worst ever day, some continued bitching about him not being here, and why the fuck would he think I’d rather fly home with the twins?
Also, does he think I’m gonna have to make a speech at the funeral?
Because I’m not sure I can even go to that.
“You’d come with me, right? You wouldn’t make me do that alone.”
“Let’s talk about it when I get there, okay?”
“Sullivan, come the fuck on. How much of this do you think I can take?”
“This is bigger than you and me, and if you don’t hear anything else I say tonight, please hear that part. This—losing your father—your family grieving—it’s bigger than you and me.”
Nothing is bigger, I want to say, but I try to hear him.
I try to do everything he wants or needs me to do.
But there’s one thing—a thought that kept wanting to happen all day that I would never quite let happen—that breaks through while Sullivan is silent on the other end of the line. Nothing can bring him back.
And so what does anything matter?
Sleep? Might as well roll the dice on it.
“Fine,” I say gruffly before putting the phone on speaker and on the pillow beside me as I lie down. “Don’t hang up.”
He makes a short noise that sounds almost cheerful at the overly gruff demand. “I won’t.”
It figures that I left my phone on the pillow without charging it, so it serves me right to wake up to a dead phone and no Sullivan. No father, either.
It’s harder to find my grief this morning when there’s so much frustration and anger bubbling to the surface.
Plugging my phone in, I wait for it to get a scintilla of a charge, and without disconnecting it from the charger, I dial Sullivan and put him back on speaker. “Good morning,” he says.
“Are you at the airport?” I ask.
“I’m driving. I’m already on the road.”
My heart sinks. “D said you had a flight.”
“I wanted to have my car.”
“Why?”
“How’d you sleep?” he asks.
I let out a short, harsh breath. “Fine, I guess. What time are you supposed to get here?”
“Seven-forty-five.”
“Fuck me,” I groan. “It’s a fourteen-hour drive, Sullivan.”
“I know. That’s why I got on the road early.”
“Where are you now?”
“Hard to say. Still in Missouri.”
“Fuck,” I bite out again. “You said you’d be here first thing.”
He lets out a heavy sigh, and I wilt. “What?” I ask.
“Look, I don’t see what good it’ll do to have me there today. I really think you should be spending this time with your family.”
“But the funeral—”
“Isn’t for another two days. Deandre told me.”
“I don’t know how I’m supposed to stand two more days of this.” I mean so much by that, and he seems to feel the weight of all I haven’t said.
“Hopefully we can see each other tonight.”
“Not hopefully. I’m seeing you tonight. I have to.”
“Okay. I’m here if you need to talk.”
He’s using the word “here” very loosely. We hang up after a few more annoyed utterances from me, and I delay the inevitable waiting by taking a shower.
The mood downstairs is more somber than tragic today.
My aunt and her friend are already up, brewing coffee, baking an egg casserole, toasting bread.
The twins and Deandre must still be sleeping.
My uncles are out back, sifting leaves out of the pool, and for a second, I mistake Jake for my dad.
They look alike in the way all the Winters men do—in the way I do, too.
It’s another gut punch, and I turn away from the window, heading for the living room.
My mom is there, lying on the sofa, a blanket over her, but she’s not sleeping. She’s scrolling her phone.
“Hi,” I say.
She makes room for me to sit, drawing her knees closer to her chest. She looks disheveled with her hair in a wonky ponytail and no makeup. “How’d you sleep?” she asks.
“Okay. Did you sleep here?”
“No. Viv made it in late last night, and we used one of the guest rooms.”
Viv is my mom’s sister. Another aunt. “I guess it’s a good thing you guys never downsized.”
Her chin trembles, one tear slipping over her eyelid to streak her face. “I guess so.”
I cover my face with both hands. “I’m sorry.”