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It might be the first time I hear just a hint of spite. “I don’t know what my life will end up looking like, but you have to ask yourself, if I wasn’t a football player, if I wasn’t Sean Greyson and playing for the Tigers, would you even be here right now?”
Her eyes roam over me while she ponders what I just asked her. “But that is who you are?”
“I won’t be that forever.”
She scoffs like it’s a ridiculous statement, but it’s true. The more I evaluate things, the more I see that door closing at some point, maybe sooner than I’ve ever imagined.
“Morgan, if you really think about it, we don’t even know each other that well.”
She laughs, and it’s filled with sarcasm. “And whose fault is that?”
I rub the back of my neck, my frustration igniting my temper, and I need to hold it together. “I’m not pointing fingers. I’m just saying that what we’ve been doing isn’t really being in a relationship, at least not what I consider a relationship should be.”
She looks down at her crossed ankles and sniffs, but not in a sniffly way. It’s more the kind that’s full of irritation. “If I leave here, that’s it. When your temporary breakdown is over, and you realize this was a mistake, I won’t be there.”
Her thinking all of this is temporary and a part of some midlife crisis only confirms again how far apart and wrong for each other we are.
“I don’t expect you to be.” I’m ready for her to leave.
She stares at me for a long few seconds like she’s waiting to see if I’ll change my mind. When I don’t, she huffs and grabs her box.
“Good luck figuring out your life. When you find yourself or whatever, I hope you don’t regret everything you’re giving up.”
I would say thank you, but I get the feeling she doesn’t really mean it.
Taking her small box, she opens the door and closes it behind her. It’s horrible. I know it’s horrible, but the finality of this gets me one step closer to being a person I recognize again.
I never wanted to hurt her, but I wonder how much of what just happened is actually emotional hurt versus me scuffing up her pride. We were never going to be right together. I know that with certainty.
With that reminder, I walk onto my screened porch, the sounds of early nightfall and cool air calming my heated skin and temper. The crisp and rhythmic sounds of the cricket chirps and the locusts in the distance are peaceful and familiar. I stand listening, and for the first time in a very long time, I feel something like excitement stirring within me.
Morgan called it a breakdown. Craig has called it a midlife crisis. Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter. All I know is I feel like I’m standing on the precipice of something real and tangible, and I haven’t been anywhere like that in a really long time.
Chapter 8
ANDIE
I crumple another piece of paper into a ball and toss it to the ground, where it lands with the other twenty that are representative of my morning. Snipe bumps my elbow with his cold, wet nose, letting out a grunt like he, too, is disgusted. I let my head fall forward onto the piano, the deep tones matching my emotional state.
Sometimes, songs pour out of me like an escapee from an asylum, fast and manic. Other times, it’s like pulling the truth from a toddler when the bowl of Halloween candy goes missing, and their mouth is smeared with chocolate. The truth is evident, but you might never get to it.
There’s a melody and words that need to come forth. It’s agonizing and painful when I can’t get them to surface. I keep digging and searching, but…nothing.
I press my hands to the keys quick and fast in frustration, knowing my time for this morning is about to expire. My little man has been napping but will be up and ready to eat soon.
I stand and stretch my arms overhead, moving to my small kitchen to fill my kettle with water and place it on the stove. I lean against the counter and hear tires crunch against my gravel drive. There are only two people it could be. When I peer out the window and see the black town car, I know I’m in for it.Bugger.
I lie in wait for the click of heels on the front porch, the door to swish open, and the woman to appear like she’s on a hunt and found her prey.
She steps in, removes her massive black sunglasses, and looks around until she spies me. She stands there, the epitome of the Nashville royalty she is, in her bright red pantsuit, black designer purse, shoes, and jewelry to match, along with professionally styled hair and makeup. If there’s ever a woman who knows how to make an entrance, it’s Gemma Taninbaugh, my grandmother.
Those squinting eyes land on me for a long second before calling over her shoulder. “She’s here, Gerald. I’ll be just a bit.” Then she closes the door.
Without saying a word, she sets her purse on the couch and sits on the edge, poised and ready. “Rough morning?” Her eyes roam over me again.
I look down at my knee-high socks and oversized sweatshirt, which is so large you can’t tell I have shorts on underneath. I can’t see it, but I’m certain my curly hair is in knots on top of my head. Even though I have a headband to help keep the mess contained, it’s likely not doing its job.
I shrug. “Rough life.”
