Page 16 of Scoring Chance

After our wedding, there was no reception, no honeymoon. Des and I went back to our normal lives. I had chores and school pickups and grocery shopping to do on top of searching for a job. Every so often, I’d remember that Des was now my husband, and I’d chuckle to myself. I texted Des reminding him of this fact, and our text chain quickly morphed into us cosplaying domestic bliss.

Des: God, yes. Who did I marry, and how did I get so lucky?

It’s stupid. It’s completely ridiculous. But I catch myself smiling every time my phone buzzes. I’ve been smiling more lately, which is…strange. Nice, but strange.

Tanner: How was your day, honey? Do you need me to fix you a post-work cocktail?

Des: Make it a double.

Being a widower is like having a giant invisible sign around your neck that says Caution: Fragile. You get used to walking around cracked. You learn how to smile at PTA meetings, laugh at your kids' jokes, even flirt a little with strangers who smile a second too long—but underneath it, you’re always split open somewhere. And then Des—rakish, confident, infuriating Des—puts a wedding ring on your finger and calls you "husband" in a text, and it doesn’t feel like a punchline.

It feels like someone reaching out and sliding the sign off your neck. As soon as I got home from the courthouse, I took off the ring. But every now and then throughout the day, I put it back on and feel myself inching toward being complete again.

I’m not saying it’s real. It’s not. He did it for my kids. For the insurance. Des doesn't even like commitment. But still, when he sends me:

Des: Did my darling husband remember to pick up peanut butter?

And I text back:

Tanner: Creamy, as you like it. I live to serve.

I feel it. That little jolt in my chest like I’m back in something warm.

A week after we exchanged fake “I do’s,” I’m parked outside the kids’ elementary school with the windows down and radio off. Lulu’s class lets out first, a stream of tiny humans galloping toward parents like they've just been released from captivity. She spots me and yells, “DADDY!” with all the subtlety of a fire alarm.

She launches herself into my arms.

“Hey, baby girl,” I say, catching her with one arm, her backpack with the other.

“Miss Melling gave us gummy bears,” she reports, breathless, “but I dropped mine on the rug and then Tommy stepped on them so they got rug on them and I didn’t eat them but I wanted to.”

“I am so sorry for your loss,” I say gravely.

She nods. “It was very hard for me.”

Davy walks out flanked by his friends, reenacting a play from his last hockey game. Dean comes out five minutes later, walking slower, head ducked. He lives life on full volume. A muted Dean is never a good sign.

“Hey, bud,” I say, ruffling his hair.

“Hey.”

His teacher Mrs. Yoon follows behind him. With her curated vintage skirt and top, she’s way too stylish to be serving looks in a suburban elementary school.

“Dean was being a little too funny in class today,” she tells me. She kneels down to his eye level. “We love joking around with our friends, but not during reading time.”

He shrugs. “It was boring.”

“Still gotta pay attention,” I say, wanting to show his teacher that I have this under control. “Being funny is great, but not if it gets in the way of your learning.”

I guide my brood into the car, which I imagine is as challenging as herding wild animals. I’m getting Lulu in her booster seat when I hear my name.

“Tanner?”

I turn. It’s Russ, tall and trim, patterned dress shirt neatly tucked into his jeans. His boys, Quentin and Josh, are in Davy’s class, and he’s one of the few dads I actually talk to at school events. His husband Cal is the brother of my teammate Derek. All of us go way back. Also, widowers tend to find each other in a crowd. Like stray cats.

“Hey, man,” I say. “How’s it going?”

“Can’t complain. Josh made it through his math test without crying, so we’re calling it a win.” He grins. “You?”