Chapter 3 #3
The moment the words leave my mouth, I realize that it sounds a little like I’ve held some kind of long-term obsession over Tank. Or, at least, that’s where my mind goes. I’m not sure about his mind, but he’s now wearing the smallest hint of a smile.
“I didn’t mean—I just meant that I knew of you.
My husband was a fan. Not that I wasn’t,” I say quickly, my words now escaping with all the speed of an eighteen-wheeler with no brakes hurtling down a mountain highway.
“I just never liked football. Or I didn’t follow it.
Football is fine! If you’re into that kind of thing. ”
“I am into that kind of thing,” he says now, clearly amused.
“Of course you are.” I shake my head. “Sorry if I offended you.”
“I’m not offended. The NFL might be, though.” He smiles, and it makes me feel slightly better. “Your husband was a fan—as in, he’s no longer around?” Tank makes a face. “Sorry. There’s not really a good way to ask that.”
“There really isn’t—but it’s okay. I’ve gotten to the point where it’s just easier to stick to the facts.
My husband died,” I say. “A little over ten years ago. He had a heart condition we didn’t know about: Brugada Syndrome.
I’d never heard of it until David died. It’s a genetic disorder affecting the electrical function of the heart.
Very hard to detect. David died in his sleep while on a business trip.
Which presented some challenges in terms of logistics to get him home, but honestly, it was a relief for me.
I think had I woken up next to him, it would have done a number on me. ”
Tank nods. “I can see that. I’m sorry for your loss. It’s never easy.”
“Thank you.” I pause, wondering if it’s weird that I already know that his wife died of cancer, or if that’s just how it works when you’re a famous football player. “I’m sorry about your wife as well. Cancer is the worst.”
“It is. The upside is that we got a goodbye and closure that you didn’t,” Tank says. “There’s something to be said for being able see the train coming.”
It doesn’t bother me to talk about David—not anymore.
Very rarely do I get emotional. But I find myself suddenly close to tears over Tank’s loss of a wife I never met.
The imagery in his statement nearly steals the breath from my lungs.
I can’t imagine what it would have been like to watch David grow sicker right in front of us.
If I had a choice, I’d go with our experience. Even without the goodbye I felt robbed of for so many years.
“I guess there isn’t really an ideal way to lose someone you love,” I say finally.
“Or a guidebook on how to move on after.”
“Actually, there are plenty of guidebooks. And they’re all terrible. People kept gifting them to me—I ended up with a whole shelf I donated to the Salvation Army. Don’t tell me you missed out on that experience.”
Tank groans. “Oh, I got the books all right. Even if I liked to read, I probably wouldn’t have touched them.
I also got bombarded with plenty of unsolicited advice.
People would drop off a meal and felt like it gave them the right to speak into my life with pithy little sayings that belong on bad greeting cards. ”
“Everything happens for a reason?” I suggest.
“They’re in a better place now,” he says in a mocking tone. “Just take it one day at a time. I mean, the thing is that most of those sayings have some truth. It’s not terrible advice.”
“It’s more how they’re said. Or when. And by whom. I dumped a glass of water on someone once.” I laugh, remembering. “Not my finest moment, but I don’t regret it.”
“Tell me,” Tank says, leaning forward like he’s been waiting his whole life for this story.
So I do. I tell him about Clarissa Van Horton, our neighbor two doors down who I long suspected kept reporting us to the HOA for John and Chelsea leaving their bikes out.
She was insufferable before David died. And afterward, she decided I was her next mission or something.
She’d stop by unannounced, look at me with pitying eyes, and ask but how are you really doing?
in a tone that felt ridiculously patronizing and gossipy.
Which was annoying, but manageable. Honestly, being annoyed by her gave me something to feel that wasn’t overwhelming sadness.
But the day I dumped a glass of water on her, she stopped by while I was weeding the front flowerbeds—after a complaint I’m sure she lodged with the HOA—about six months after David’s death.
She looked me up and down and said, “Don’t you think it’s about time you started taking care of yourself? If not for you, for the children.”
When I finish recounting the story, Tank sucks in a breath. “How can people say things like that?”
I shrug. “People are just how they are sometimes. And this was how she was. Never changed.”
“So, did you say anything or toss your water at her?”
“I’ve never been very confrontational, even when I should have been. I told her thank you, then pretended to trip and let the glass slip out of my hands and straight down her front. More satisfying than it probably should have been. I only wish I’d poured it over her head.”
“She would have deserved it. And then some.”
“But she wouldn’t have learned anything from it, and then I probably would have felt bad and apologized. So, maybe it was a good thing.” I shake my head. “It was one thing to imply that I was letting myself go and completely another to bring my kids into it.”
“Agreed. That’s crossing an unforgivable line. I don’t know your kids, but I can’t imagine you doing anything but an amazing job raising them. Before and after your loss.”
“Well, I’ve met a few of yours, and you’ve done a great job yourself.”
Tank beams, but then his expression clouds. “Not always. But thank you.”
Some people might say this as a way of being overly self-deprecating, but that’s not Tank.
Maybe I don’t know him well—more like, barely know him—but I can tell there’s something more to his comment.
Something bigger and darker. It’s a dangerous look, because it activates a deep-seated need to smooth over the hurt.
I actively have to hold myself back from crossing the sectional-sofa divide to give him a hug.
But that would be weird. Definitely beyond our current friendship level, which is whatever the level of discussing your dead spouses is. Maybe a level three out of ten? I’m not sure.
Is Tank even a hugger? He looks like he would be. And like he would give really amazing hugs.
I shake off that thought, because I cannot sit here across from the man while imagining his arms around me.
Focus, Rose, I tell myself. You wanted to cheer him up.
Smiling, I say, “Well, who has done it well always? I thought parenting was just a long string of creative failures.”
It works, and Tank grins, his blue eyes glinting with happiness once again. Which is the kind of look a man shouldn’t casually throw around. It’s far more dangerous than his haunted look from a moment ago.
“That’s an apt description. Did you learn that in one of your well-intentioned grief books?”
“This one is all me. I’ve got a patent pending. Or trademark? I forget, but it’s one of those.”
“It’s a good saying,” Tank says. “I might have to borrow it.”
“Anytime.”
There’s a natural break in our conversation, and I realize we’re sitting on the sofa, grinning at each other. The room—no, the whole loft—suddenly feels too small.
I stand. “I should go. Your offer is very generous but—”
He stands too. And when he reaches out and gently cups my elbow, I go very, very still. “Rose,” he says.
“Theo,” I breathe, trying the name out. I like how it feels. But it also feels somehow … too intimate. Like I haven’t earned the right to call him that yet.
“I’m going to pack a quick bag and go,” Tank says.
“The guest room is right there with clean sheets. I’ll text you the code to the door, and you can come and go as you please.
I might stop by later to grab a few things and check on you, but I want you to make yourself at home. Please—let me do this for you.”
Maybe it’s the butterflies moving up to dizzy my thoughts or maybe it’s the kindness in his bright blue eyes, but I find myself nodding. “Okay. But how can I thank you?”
His smile widens at this. “Normally, I wouldn’t ask, but I’ve been thinking about that hummingbird cake since my son’s wedding. Is that too much to ask?”
“A hummingbird cake?” I ask with a little laugh. “I think that’s too little.”
“Not to me,” Tank—Theo—says, giving my elbow a little squeeze before he drops his hand. “To me, it sounds like a perfect trade.”
Long after he lets go and heads out, the memory of this simple touch lingers like a ghost over my skin.