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ELLIE
Is it possible for a date to be simultaneously the worst and the best?
Going out with Slater was bittersweet. It was a goodbye, even if neither of us used that word. Even with the pesky photograph, the evening was perfect—except that every minute splintered another piece of my heart. I kept it together because I refuse to let him know that my feelings are no longer casual.
I don’t want to be a distraction, so I didn’t tell him anything except for good luck.
“I’m at the airport,” he says over the rumble of a plane when I answer my phone later that week. He’s been calling me every day to keep me updated on his progress as he flies from place to place.
“Where are you heading?” I ask as I close the refrigerator.
“Back to Sacramento. They’re going to offer me a contract.” With less background noise, he sounds giddy—his excitement easily carries through the phone.
“Wow. Congratulations.” I’m genuinely happy for him.
“It’s only for a year. Their starter is out until mid-October, but I’ll get to start until he’s cleared to play.” He doesn’t need to continue; I can fill in the details. In between our conversations, I’ve been stalking any mention of him in the news.
The speculation has been rampant.
A shocking number of people make their living guessing what prominent athletes will do or could do or should do. Just last night, I read an article where the writer laid out a well-reasoned argument for Sacramento to sign Slater.
They have veteran receivers and a solid running game. He’ll get to play but he won’t have to carry the team. He won’t even be playing in the late season games. As long as he plays well, it could lead to a bigger, better contract elsewhere. He’s still going to be under pressure to perform at the highest level, but it’s much less pressure than there would be in other situations.
Plus, Sacramento is good—championship good.
“I’m not sure when I’ll be back,” he says, like I don’t already know.
If he’s lucky, he won’t be back until February. I blink back the tears—February is a long ways away. I scramble to say the right thing because I want him to achieve the success he craves.
“I know. I’m so happy for you.” He doesn’t respond, so I rush to fill the silence. “You’ll want to start training right away.”
“Of course.” He pauses as if he’s unsure. “I’ll have to pass the physical first.”
I snort. “You aren’t worried about the physical.”
“No.” He huffs into the phone and I can imagine his smile as he says, “It’s a necessary step in the process. I’ve got to get up to speed with their playbook as fast as I can.”
“Is it going to be that different?”
“Probably. Randy Nix is one of the best at making tight throws into double coverage. He gets the ball out of his hand faster than anyone else in the league. Most teams don’t even try to run their offense with the same tempo. I need to match it so they can seamlessly transition back to him when he’s healthy.”
“You can do it,” I say confidently. I’m not sure if it changes anything, but I want him to know I believe in him.
“I know.” There’s no hesitation in his words. “I’ve got to go through security. I’ll call you later.”
He hangs up and I slide down the fridge to the floor. He didn’t say it, not in so many words, but I know what happens now. Our relationship—if you can even call it that—will fade away until we stop talking altogether. Knowing we had an expiration date means I’m prepared, but it doesn’t ease my sadness.
The next couple of weeks fly by.
I start my new job and it only takes one patient for me to realize it’s the kind of job I should have had all along. I can’t believe I spent years trying to fix marriages when I could have been supporting kids who are suffering because of their parents’ choices. I would have given anything to have someone to talk to after my dad left.
In the chaos of starting my new job, my mother moving, and Slater leaving—the only constant is dinner with my father. Our relationship isn’t the same as it used to be. We’ve been on tenuous footing since our breakfast with Libby, but we show up each week and pretend that everything is normal.
Don’t get me started on the psychological cost of pretending. I’m well aware that nothing will change if I keep pretending.
I’m running uncharacteristically late when I arrive at the restaurant. The hostess tells me my father has already been seated and sends me into the dining room. When I get to our usual table, it’s empty. I scan the room and almost miss him sitting at the table near the windows—because he isn’t alone.
My brothers are sitting across from him.
