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Me: Written permission on file with the school. Also, please don’t talk to Micah about our relationship. Or use food to try to get back in my good graces.
Beau: I didn’t say anything to him about us. If he’s saying stuff, it’s because he’s an observant, smart kid. And I’m not trying to manipulate you with food.
Me: Bullshit.
Beau: Fine. But is it working?
I set my phone on the counter at the charging station, pick up a fork, and stab at a meatball.
My stomach rumbles. I pop the meatball onto a plate, along with a little of everything else, and sit down to eat with my son.
* * *
The Dauterive Eagles lost their first game of the season to Longview.
That was yesterday.
It’s now Saturday, and I’ve been avoiding the press at all costs, knowing that every news outlet from Tyler to Dallas is reporting on whether our little football program is already in talks to fire Beau. High school football is a rough scene in Texas, no matter how small the school is. I hate that it’s like that.
I’ve also been avoiding Beau all week, much to the chagrin of Micah.
However, I did attend the game, and not just because of my son’s involvement. Everyone, and I mean everyone, in Dauterive is at the football field on Friday nights. Literally, nothing is open, so what else is there? Not the bars, corner stores, or even the town’s sole gas station.
After the game, I felt so bad for Beau and the boys, I found it in myself—I didn’t have to search too deeply—to send one text:
Me: I’m sorry. Let me know if you need anything.
He did not reply immediately, but I saw his response this morning, which was sent at 2 a.m. The time stamp alone makes my stomach clench in sympathy.
Beau: Thank you. I appreciate that.
On the one hand, I wish I hadn’t allowed Beau to become such a fixture in our lives. I should have pumped the brakes on the physical side of things and gotten to know him better first. I wish our coming together hadn’t sparked such a craving for him. Besides the conversations, outings, and meals around my kitchen table, I miss him in my bed. I miss his hands on me. I miss his lips. And I wish it wasn’t so hard to push that aside in order to gain some perspective.
They say time heals all wounds, but in this case, every day this week leading up to the big game, I became grumpier and grumpier.
And this morning, I got my period. I’ve got a real trash fire going here; what else should we throw on it, Universe?
On the other hand, Beau has respected my request to give me some space. He hasn’t been banging down my door or sending a barrage of texts. He sends food home with Micah after practices. On top of that, he has stepped up his game in the teaching department.
The rest of the first week of school, he’s looked haggard and worn, but he’s had lesson plans for every grade level. I swear he must be staying up all night watching YouTube videos on how to do this. Bless his heart.
And the kids are learning something and not shooting the shit all day about sports, so there’s that.
It’s once again humid as balls outside, so that window unit is earning its keep today. With my cramps, I’m not fucking around with humidity.
I’m parked on the sectional in my jammies when there’s a knock on the door.
Micah comes out of his room to answer it, walking right past me as I lie in the fetal position just feet from the front door. The boy has been trained in what mommy does and does not do when she’s on her period; I pray that training serves him well as an adult.
“Hi, Coach.”
I groan, closing my eyes.
“How you doing, kiddo?”
Micah sighs. “Shitty.”
I croak, “Language.”
