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When my phone rings mid-morning on a Monday, I glance at the screen and answer with trepidation. I had a second interview two weeks after the first, and each day that has passed since has weakened my confidence to the point where I’m almost certain they’re calling to tell me they gave the job to someone else.
I hold my breath as a cheerful woman offers me a full-time position working with children and teens. Many—not all—of my patients will be seeking therapy during/after a divorce.
I stammer out an acceptance, and when I hang up, I have a minor freakout in Slater’s kitchen. I sink into a squat, put my head between my knees, and breathe through my nose.
I can do it. I can do it. I chant in my head.
It isn’t that I don’t think I can—it’s that if I fail, it’s going to be so much worse than failing to help adults. My personal experience makes me all too aware of how it feels to lack support. Once I get my anxiety under control, excitement kicks in.
Slater is doing push-ups in his home gym when I burst into the room.
“I got the job!” I practically shout.
“Congratulations!” He springs off the ground and envelopes me in a sweaty hug. “We should celebrate.”
“Yes.” I bury my nose in his damp neck and inhale. He smells delectable—like always.
“What’s that place you like?” he asks.
“You’re going to have to be more specific.”
“With the pasta.”
I pull away from his neck. “You don’t eat pasta.”
“It’s your favorite,” he says, as if that makes all the difference. “We have to celebrate with something you love. We’ll order dinner. Whatever you want.”
“I want it all. The gnocchi, the ravioli, the fat spaghetti noodles that taste divine.”
“Bread? Champagne? Dessert?”
“Yes, yes, and yes.”
“Your wish is my command,” he says. “Six?”
“That works. I have to go so I can sign a bunch of paperwork, but I’ll be back for dinner.” As I head out, I can’t help feeling grateful that I have someone to celebrate with.
“I’ve been released,” Slater says a few evenings later after a quickie in the shower. Arriving right when he’s finishing a workout has some definite perks.
“Released?” I ask as I yank one of his clean tees over my head.
“Miami isn’t going to pick up my fifth year. They don’t want to negotiate a new deal, so they’re letting me go.” He runs his towel over his head, leaving his short hair spiked in every direction.
I pause, studying him carefully. He looks relaxed and happy. “You already knew that.”
“This makes it official. I can’t sign a new deal until free agency starts, but Cam can formally talk to teams starting on Monday.”
“Wow.” It’s the chance he’s been waiting for. “What does that mean?”
“Cam and I are leaving Sunday night. Our first stop is Milwaukee.”
Sunday. Sunday is March 12. That’s three days early.
I try not to react. I don’t pause as I pull up my leggings. I even manage to keep my face neutral, but my insides seize up. Our days were always numbered, but now we have three less days. And nights.
I thought I was ready for it, but it hits me like a ton of bricks. I refuse to acknowledge my sadness, so I scramble to remember what he’s told me about Milwaukee. “Young receivers, weak offensive line, and strong defense.”
“Exactly.” His smile dims. “But it’s also cold as hell in the winter.”
