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I got Mom that massage, plus a facial and this North Carolina clay body wrap thing (why not?), so she’s been at the spa all day while I fly solo with the baby. Even though getting the two of us presentable enough to leave the house took literally three hours, I really needed to get out after a long day of mourning. Because that’s what this feels like: a death.
The death of the infallible guy I’ve known since college.
The death of our foolish, delicious youth.
The death of the possibility we could be more than friends.
That Beau could be the one.
The irony that we can’t be together—in his mind, anyway—when we need each other the most, when we’re both single and both craving the presence and the touch of someone who knows us, truly, deeply knows us, is painful beyond measure.
Maybe that’s why we finally made out at the dock house after years of pining for each other like idiot teenagers. Because we’re dying to be known. Understood. Despite the fact that we’re feeling less than: less than perfect. Less than desirable.
The problem is, Beau really does think he’s dying. Who am I to refute that? I imagine he’s sought out the opinion of the best doctors and therapists out there. He’s a smart guy. He’s not prone to hyperbole. If he thinks he’s sick, then he’s really sick.
I did my own late-night Google search after I got home from Beau’s yesterday. I remember researching CTE when they discovered it in Mr. Beauregard’s brain. But that was ten, twelve years ago. Now, there’s much more information. And many, many more resources for people like Beau who have been diagnosed with probable degenerative brain disease.
The statistics are admittedly scary. The incidence of CTE in athletes who played tackle positions, like Beau, is very, very high. Beau was an outside linebacker in the pros for almost a decade. Never mind the years he played in high school and college. He had something like five hundred total tackles in his career, one hundred sacks. Who knows how many hits to the helmet he sustained?
Enough to cause serious, traumatic injury, that’s for damn sure.
Several football players who committed suicide were later shown to have had CTE. Men like Mr. Beauregard.
Still. Maybe this makes me naïve, but I don’t buy that Beau will end up like his dad. He’s being proactive in a way his dad was sadly never able to. Yes, his dad had money to afford good care. But twelve years ago, they just didn’t know what we do now about CTE. There have been lots of medical advancements since then.
But how do I make him see that? Is it even right to try? I’m no fortune teller. I can’t read the future any better than he can. And even if I could convince him his story will be different, there’s no guarantee that he and I will be better off as lovers rather than friends, or that we’re right for each other in the long run. What if we blow up and the fallout sends him reeling? What if it impacts his mental health or mine in ways we could never anticipate?
Doesn’t make his refusal sit any lighter. I recognize the weight in the pit of my stomach as grief. I felt it when my parents’ marriage ended. I felt it again when mine ended, too. It’s familiar and it’s awful, and I know nothing will fix it except time and grace.
But for now, a good meal will go a long way in helping me cope.
Gliding the stroller back and forth—out of habit—I manage a smile as Samuel strides across the restaurant to greet us.
“Hey, y’all! How’ve you been?” He presses a scruffy kiss into my cheek. My body rings with the memory of a similar kiss, planted in a similar place.
Drawing a sharp breath, I reply, “We’re hanging in there. You have room for a party of one and a half? I promise we’ll be out of here before six.”
Samuel’s handsome face creases into his habitual smile. “We’ll always have room for you, Annabel. That little nugget is always welcome, and y’all definitely don’t have to rush.” He leans down to smile at the baby. “Good Lord, she’s beautiful.”
“Thanks.”
“C’mon, follow me. I got the best table in the house waitin’ for you.”
“If you could put us in a corner, maybe a little ways from other tables, that’d be great.”
“Course. Keep in mind, this is a family-friendly place, Annabel. You don’t have to worry.”
But judging by the white tablecloths and multiple crystal wine glasses holding court at each place setting, I don’t think anyone dines here often except well-heeled adults with expensive wine habits.
He seats us in a cushy leather booth toward the back of the barn. Afternoon sun streams through nearby windows, one of them open to catch the warm spring breeze. Daylight savings time started two weeks ago, so the light inside the restaurant is bright. Strong. Makes me feel like I’m here for lunch or something, when all I want is a dark, moody, buzzy dinner.
