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“After dealing with delays and Dad yelling at people who cut him off on the highway, I’m glad we’re home.”
“That’s good to know, sweetheart,” she answered, sliding her hand around my back and guiding me into the house. “I just pulled a loaf of banana bread out of the oven, I baked your favorite lemon cookies last night, and I’m about to stir up some sweet tea if you want some?”
“You’re making my mouth water,” I said, looking around to see that nothing had changed in this home since the last time I made it home—or since I was a kid, for that matter.
“I turned your old room into my crafting room,” Mom said, “but Dad and I rearranged things for you and John on this visit. So, there’s a queen-sized bed in there, and just ignore my crafting desk that we shoved into the corner.”
I chuckled, “John’s not staying here with us, Mom.”
She frowned, “I thought you said he was coming for the Fourth?”
“He is,” I said.
“Well, I just assumed since you invited him that?—”
“In the spirit of having a little self-respect, given the man just up and left me without a word and expects I’ll take him back because he said he loves me, I thought I’d treat this as a starting from ground-zero situation.”
“I see,” my mom said, obviously confused. “Where will he stay?”
“He mentioned something about getting a hotel. He’ll be fine.”
She smiled, “You can be a little rough on him, but let me advise you that punishing the poor boy is not the answer.”
“And what he did to me wasn’t punishment?” I answered.
I didn’t consider this punishment. This was me, putting all my cards on the table. You want me? This is what I am. I am a down-home, country girl who spent her childhood barefoot and drinking from garden hoses between catching frogs and exploring the woods behind our house until Momma turned on the porch light to signal it was time for supper. I was raised eating deviled eggs, fried chicken, and okra, licking my fingers before downing a jug of sweet tea. I was not a debutant, and I never wanted to be. John needed to see that if he ever had an inkling that I’d be the type of girl to have a week-long wedding with stylists and the like, he was dead wrong about me.
“It’s her competitive side, Alice,” my dad said, coming downstairs after he brought my luggage up to the room. “She’s not like those other young women who would take back their man with open arms because he wrote them a poem. You must make these boys prove their words.”
“You sound like Aunt Bev,” I said, patting Dad’s shoulder.
“After hearing that boy is going to stay in a hotel, it sounds like you’ve also had a little conversation with your Aunt Bev,” my mother said with a sly smile while turning to her baking counter and rolling out a pie crust.
“As you know, I’ve had players quit on the team for whatever reason and then try to come back,” Dad started, sitting on one of the bar stools that faced my mom’s remodeled and gorgeous kitchen of white cabinets and stainless steel.
“Go on, Coach Smith,” Mom said, working vigorously on rolling out her pie crust. “Tell us how you handled those players.”
I smiled, sitting beside Dad after pouring some tea for us both.
“Well, firstly, I didn’t take them right back. They broke my trust by leaving the team, and then they tried to come back with a bunch of excuses about why they left. Now, ninety percent of the time, they’re back because they learned the grass wasn’t greener on the other team. So, I need to see their motivation to play for me again, and the rest of their teammates need to see it, too. They need to earn their way back. I won’t just put them on the starting line-up again, no matter how good the player is.”
“Well, that’s easy if they quit to play for another team,” I said. “They most likely did that because you had them riding the bench, and they had no play time.”
Dad shook his head, “Do you remember Justin’s boy, the Johnson kid?”
“Matt?” I asked, laughing at how the old folks in this town still referred to grown adults as everyone’s kids.
I was probably still known as Coach Tim’s little girl.
“Years before he got drafted into the NFL—you know he was a natural at quarterback, and we never lost one game with that kid—he quit my team and went to play for another.”
“Then came back?” I questioned, confused.
“He did, telling me that his dad insisted he leave for the other team, but now, he was making decisions for himself and wanted back on my team. I wanted to start that kid so bad,” he chuckled at the memory. “We were on a ten-game losing streak when he came knocking on my door.”
“And did you play him?”
“No,” he shook his head. “I did what you’re doing with this John fellow. I made him do some grunt work to prove where his priorities were.”
