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I sighed and pressed my back against the wall, sinking to the floor. Duke joined me, and our legs stretched into the empty hallway.
What a fucking day.
I pulled my attention back to my older brother, who was looking at his clasped hands. “What do you know about love languages?”
Duke’s mouth twisted, and he slanted his head toward me. His expression communicated,The fuck?loud and clear.
“Forget it. It was just something I was reading about.” I blew out a heavy breath. “Are we doing the right thing here?” I wasn’t sure if I was asking him or myself, but I let the question hang in the air.
Duke sighed, defeated. “I don’t know. I think so.”
“I didn’t realize things had gotten so bad.”
Duke’s work boots looked worn against the clean carpeting, and his shoulders slumped. “Yeah.”
We sat in silence, each lost in memories of Dad. I thought about how he’d always been bigger than life. When Mom died, he was raising four kids on his own and doing whatever he could to keep the farm afloat. He was tough and demanded perfection from all of us. Tootie had stepped up to be like a mother, especially to Katie, who was so young she probably didn’t remember much about Mom.
“I’m sorry I left.” The words were out before I could rethink them.
Duke shook his head. “Don’t be. You deserved to live your life.”
“And you didn’t?”
“Ah, c’mon.” Duke bumped my shoulder in a rare attempt to lighten the mood. “I got to tell everyone my little brother is that hotshot quarterback they see on TV.”
I saw his joke for what it really was—deflection of my question regarding howhislife had turned out.
“Should we go in and see him?”
Duke’s lips flattened into a grim line, and he shook his head. “He won’t know us today.”
* * *
My sullen mooddogged me the next day as I stomped out onto the football field. It was an optional workout and practice for our special teams players to develop their long-snapping skills, and it pissed me off that only three kids bothered to show up.
I ran them hard. When they screwed up, they ran again. When my thoughts drifted back to Dad, they ran. Whenever an image of Lark getting in her car and leaving Outtatowner for good popped into my head, they ran.
“You’re gonna run the dog piss out of those kids.” The warning and disappointment in Ricky’s voice was clear.
I ground my teeth together. I knew my coach was right.
I blew my whistle twice to signal the end of the run, and the players groaned in relief and dragged their feet back to the center of the field.
“Look alive. Fast feet! Fast feet!” I barked at them.
Jesus, I sound just like him.
Memories of hours rehashing game video and sitting silent while Dad pointed out all the things I’d fucked up flooded back to me. I needed to run faster. Throw harder. If a pass was five yards, it should have been seven. A touchdown was fine, but not if it was sloppy.
At the time, I’d hated him for it. That hate morphed into gratitude when, in college, I realized I could get on top, not just on natural skill, but on my willingness to outrun, outthrow, and outwork every other player on the team.
I looked onto the beaten-down faces of my players. I didn’t want to be that kind of coach, so I offered the only words I had wished to hear from my dad for so many years.
“You worked hard today. You didn’t give up. You each gave your best, and I want you to know that your best is good enough. I’m really proud of you.”
* * *
Thoughts of Larkconsumed me on the drive back to Outtatowner. My feelings were getting away from me. Something about being back in my hometown, about having family around to know and love Penny, about how easy and natural things felt between Lark and my daughter.
