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“She won’t be alone. She’ll have all of us. She’ll have other people in her life who are important to her. But until you let yourself focus fully on the game when that’s what you need to do, you’ll never be able to make it work.”
I’m quiet for a moment, letting her words sink in. It makes sense, but I’m pretty sure Dad never fucked up like I did. “I don’t want her to think she has to keep things from me, or not tell me when she’s struggling. I don’t want her to feel like she’s constantly coming in second.”
“The fact you know that is a good start,” she says. “But even if you do need to prioritize your job sometimes, that doesn’t mean she’s coming in second. What will playing football professionallygive you? Beyond love for the game, because I’ve seen you play your whole life and I know you have that.”
There’s only one answer that comes to mind. “Money.”
“Stability,” she says, nodding. “Whenever things got hard between me and your father, I reminded myself that he was doing all he could to create a future for us, for our family. So that we could have all of this, long after he retired from playing.” She gestures around the room. “Don’t you want to take care of her? Think about how lucky you are to be able to do that while doing something you love. So many people don’t have that option.”
“I know you’re right,” I say. She is. The best way to take care of Bex—materially, at least—is to play football. “But she has the diner, and she’s committed to it. If she’s there and I’m across the country...”
“Talk to her about it,” she says. “You can figure something out. Compromise, honey.”
“Easier said than done.”
She rises from her chair and comes around the table to pat my cheek. “I never said it was easy. Just that you can do it.”
Chapter 45
Bex
“Order up,” I tell Sam as I set a plate of eggs and toast in front of him. “I added in some homemade apple jam for the toast, let me know how you like it.”
Mom looks up from where she’s wiping down a nearby table. “I made it, Sam. Rosa would have been proud.”
“She would have been for sure.” He smiles at me as I walk back around the counter. “Thanks, Bex.”
“You got it.” I redo my hair clips, then grab my notepad and pencil to go and take another order. It’s been a relatively slow morning at Abby’s Place, which is unfortunate, because I can use whatever distractions I can get, between mulling over what to do about Darryl and replaying my conversation with Sebastian. Sometimes I get caught up thinking about little kid James, defending his brother, and I smile. But mostly, I can’t stop thinking about the mess of everything I helped make.
“You’re all pensive again,” Mom says, squeezing my waist as she walks by. “Are you going to take that order, or should I?”
“Right. Sorry.” I paste on a smile and make my way over to the couple sitting at the table, two older women with matching tote bags and simple silver wedding bands.
“This is such a pretty photograph,” one of the women says, pointing to the framed piece on the wall in the middle of their booth. “Do you know the photographer?”
I look over at it. It’s a photograph I took of one of the farm-stands here in town that sells fruits and vegetables and cute little clay pots that the owner’s daughter makes. In the spring and summer, they sell bundles of flowers, and in the fall, they sell pumpkins, then Christmas trees. I loved the way the flowers looked in their metal bins and focused on those. It was last spring when Laura and I visited; we bought a bouquet for our room and a bag of cherries to split.
“I took it,” I say. “It’s from Henderson Farms, right at the edge of town. They’re closed in January, but they have really nice produce.”
“Is it for sale?”
I blink. “The farm? I don’t think so.”
The woman glances over at me. Her wife laughs softly, putting her hand on top of hers. “The photograph, I mean. Is it for sale? I’d just love it for our kitchen. Reminds me of why we moved up here from the city.”
“You’d really buy it?”
“Of course.” She opens her tote bag and rummages through it. “I have cash if that’s easiest for you. What do you normally charge for a piece that’s already framed?”
I need to work hard to make sure my jaw doesn’t fall on the floor. “Um, fifty?”
Her wife tuts. “Please tell me you’re not undervaluing yourself like this. Two hundred.”
My mouth really does fall open then, as the first woman counts out a whole bunch of twenties and passes them across the table.
“Unless the piece is particularly special to you?” she says.
“No, it’s not that.” I swallow, picking up the cash and tucking it into my apron. “Please take it and enjoy it, that’s why I put it upin the diner in the first place. I’m just... surprised. I don’t sell a lot of my photography.”
