Chapter 1 #2
“As you well know, women are also people. But yes—most of the time, I am asking women. Not sure if it’s relevant or not to the mayoral support, but I am not and have never been lucky in love.”
I hate that phrase—lucky in love.
Mostly because once upon a time, I thought it to be true for me.
While many pro football players have tumultuous, short-lived relationships with women whose motives may be more about money than the man, I found Michelle.
Beautiful, miles smarter than me, and a delight.
Not that we didn’t have our disagreements and conflicts to work through.
Two imperfect people sharing a bed and a life always will.
But she was an amazing wife and just as good of a mother.
I was lucky in love. Once. Not that I believe in luck per se. But I had it very, very good. Until the supposed luck ran out and cancer took her.
I still do have it good in many ways. Just not in romance. And for so many years, building a life around my kids has been enough. I’ve missed Michelle, specifically, but any time I started to miss having a companion, generally, I ripped out the feeling from its roots, like a weed.
The very few dates I’ve been on over the years—none of which my kids know about—were not good.
Nothing dramatic or horrible, but they felt like cheap imitations of something real.
The American cheese that comes individually wrapped in plastic when you’re used to an aged sharp cheddar.
This isn’t a statement about the women I went out with so much as the experience of going out with anyone who wasn’t my wife.
I eventually decided that I have enough love in my life that I don’t need to mourn what I lost and what I lack.
“Bunker or no bunker, this is good enough for me.” I stand, extending my hand to Wolf. “You’ve got my full support. I think Sheet Cake would be in good hands with you.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” he says, grinning. “Now, is it uncouth of me to ask if I can have the coatrack you were donating? It would look great in the entry hall of my bunker. Which does, in fact, exist. How about this—what if I host a Graham Fam poker night there this month?”
“Poker in your bunker? We’ve got a deal, and you’ve got yourself a coatrack.”
Harper finds me out back when the sun is setting and the house is empty of all but echoes and the aftertaste of memory.
I’m standing by the pool, staring out over the large yard as the sun paints the sky in pink and gold.
It’s mid-October, and I always feel like sunsets are a little crisper in the fall, even if it’s still hot as blazes.
While many people think of New Year’s or even spring as the time for fresh starts, for me, it’s always been autumn.
The beginning of the football season, the beginning of school.
The beginning, now, of a new and uncharted future.
I wrap my arm around Harper’s shoulders and sigh as she leans into me.
“How’re you doing, Daddy?” she asks.
I’ve thought about this a lot today, so I should have some kind of answer. In truth, I don’t. I’m not sure how I am, and even if I had a solid read on my emotions right this second, they might change as soon as I drive away.
This house, purchased after I retired from the NFL, has been the only home the kids remember.
There were so many firsts here—first steps, first words, first stitches, first time riding a bike.
Beyond the firsts, this place holds so many other memories.
The time Pat jumped off the roof into the pool and nearly fractured his skull on the concrete.
The time I caught Collin kissing a girl in the back seat of his car—while it was still running inside the closed garage. Almost a deadly makeout mistake.
We watched movies on the big sectional downstairs so many times, and there have been countless poker nights out on the back patio. One of Harper’s best friends even got married right out here by the pool a few years back.
It’s also where Michelle died.
Once again, I’m surprised by the way thinking about her isn’t the gut punch it usually is.
I’ve always carried the sadness and grief, wearing them like an undershirt that’s hidden beneath my clothes, right up against my skin, close and a bit too tight. Now, though, the feelings are lighter. Looser. To the degree I wonder if I’m still wearing them at all.
Panic jolts through me. If those feelings disappear, what do I have left?
Maybe I should reframe the question: If they clear out, what room does that leave for something new?
“Dad?” Harper says, nudging me gently.
“I’m good.” Which is mostly true. “Ish,” I add, which is more accurate. “We did a lot of living here. It’s hard to think about letting it go.”
“You’re not letting go of what we lived.” Harper reaches up and places a hand gently over my heart. “Your memories are here,” she says, then taps my temple. “And up here. They go where you go. These four walls don’t contain them.”
“My brilliant girl.” I drop a kiss on the side of her head, pushing my luck with all the physical affection. Today, though, she seems to need it as much as I do. “You’re absolutely correct.”
“But it is sad to think about leaving this place,” she says. “I mean, I really love this house. Always have.”
She pauses, and if it were anyone else, I might think she’s about to cry. But Harper isn’t one who cries often. I think Pat actually wins the award for most tears in our household. He feels all things all the way all the time. A full-volume emoter.
Harper processes quietly. Internally. Over time. Which makes me think she’s been processing this goodbye for a good long while. Maybe even before I announced I was going to sell.
“Do you happen to know the family who bought this place?” she asks. “You said it was a family, right? I like that idea.”
I rub a hand across my jaw. “That’s what they led me to believe.”
Harper looks up at me. “What does that mean?”
“I sold to an investment firm Thayden found, actually. But he assured me they’ve got several interested families.”
She turns back to the horizon, where the sun has surrendered, leaving a faint glow fading into the dark velvet sky. “Hm.”