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“Love you,” he says as he releases me, then grabs his coat from the rack.
I open the door for him. “You still coming out tomorrow night?”
“Yup. You sure you got enough coverage for the bar? I can work.”
He’s talking about the fact that the Titans are all coming over to Jerry’s. They have an entire day and night off since they’re in the middle of three away games called “there and backs.” That means the other cities they play in are close enough for them to fly out that morning and then return home after the game.
What started out as Tillie, Coen, Harlow, and Stone making plans to hang with me and Hendrix at the bar tomorrow night for a few beers and some pool has turned into a good chunk of the team coming. I’ve not advertised to anyone that this is happening, but I know once patrons come in and see Titans players there, word will get out.
“I’ve got two extra bartenders and an extra floating waitress,” I reply, half amused by his concern because he can’t stop being a dad, and half annoyed as he knows I would’ve thought these things out. “I want you to have fun with us.”
“It’s not weird to have your dad hanging out with you?” he asks as he steps out onto the porch and zips up his jacket.
I wave my hand with a scoff. “It’s so weird, but people will get used to you.”
“Smart-ass,” he grumbles and then trots off the steps. I watch as he gets in his truck and pulls away, giving a tiny toot of his horn in farewell.
After locking up, I head back into the living room and grab my diary. I doodled in it during the game intermissions while my dad and I talked. My dad has watched me fill journal after journal over the years, knowing that I was memorializing not just feelings but snippets of my life so I’d never forget both good and bad. For years, it’s mostly been good.
It’s been cathartic to write about my mom and our struggles to build a new relationship, but I mostly jot notes about those moments in my life that make me feel warm and right with the world.
I write the date at the top of the page of doodles—the Titans’ logo, a sketch of a tattoo I’ve been considering getting on my back, and a 3D rendering of Hendrix’s name with hearts around it. I snicker as I study it, opening up to the schoolgirl giddiness I sometimes feel when I think about him.
My phone rings, and I lean over to grab it off the coffee table. I’m stunned to see it’s Hendrix. This is the fourth away game he’s been on since we’ve been seeing each other, and he’s never called me after.
“Hey,” I say as I connect the call. “How are you doing?”
He sighs, his voice fatigued, and I can imagine him running a hand through his sweaty hair. “Pissed that we lost.”
I don’t dare try to tell him he played great or that the team fought hard. I’m sure he doesn’t need my analysis nor my attempts to minimize his dark feelings, especially if he’s blaming himself.
All I can do is affirm his emotions. “Totally understandable. You put your soul into your job. I know every loss hurts like hell.”
Hendrix is silent a moment before saying, “Not going to lie. Just hearing your voice makes things better.”
“I’m glad you called. I don’t even know what you do after the game, but I didn’t think you’d ever have time to reach out.”
“I really shouldn’t be on the phone,” he admits. “I need to grab my shower and get on the bus. Just wanted to let you know I was thinking about you.”
A rush of emotion hits me so hard tears sting my eyes. Hendrix coming off a loss, feeling crappy about it and taking a precious minute just to hear my voice—I don’t know if I’ve ever been that important to someone before, other than my dad, and it fills part of the hole left by my mom leaving. Often it wasn’t about me needing her that hurt the most, but that she clearly didn’t need my love… the way a child loves a parent.
Hendrix’s call has shown me that I receive value from being needed. I’m boosted by being important to someone else.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
“For what?” he asks.
“For being you. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
“Looking forward to it. Good night, Stevie.”
“Good night, Hendrix.”
The call disconnects, and I pull the phone to my chest, holding it against the happy thumping of my heart. I replay that short exchange and because it makes me so joyful, I know it has to go in my journal.
I slide my phone onto the table and open my diary to the page after my doodles.
