“I’m not complaining. I just thought you didn’t want to advertise this.”
She sighs. “I don’t. I was angry and feeling a bit reckless.”
“You and your dad?”
She nods. “He just makes me so angry sometimes.”
“Come on.” I help her slide down off the hood, my hands lingering on her hips for just a second. “Let’s go to my place, and you can tell me about it.”
I help her into my pickup, mostly as an excuse to touch her, and then I drive over to where her car is parked at the edge of the lot, then we head to my place separately.
Once we’re both inside, she sheds her jacket and shoes, and my body kicks back into normal gear, alerting me to just how hungry I am. I had barely anything at lunch, choosing Dallas over food. I’m tempted to do it again with her sitting on my couch, relaxed and perfectly at home, but one loud growl of my stomach tells me that she’s not going anywhere. Food first.
I order pizza and eat a sandwich while we wait. I offer to make one for Dallas too, but she laughs. “I think I’ll be fine with just the pizza, thanks.”
I sit down on the couch, sandwich in hand, and say, “Okay then. Tell me what happened with your dad.”
“Ugh. He’s just clueless.” She scoots closer and lays her head on my thigh. “He thought Levi and me were still friends or something, and wanted to know if I knew about the drugs or was involved. I don’t even know. Most days, I swear it’s like he doesn’t even know me. You’d think he would have at least picked up on a few things since I was in diapers, but nope.”
I let my sandwich-free hand drift through her hair, wrapping the deep red strands around my fingers.
“Do I still get to ask personal questions?”
She leans into my hand and says dramatically, “I suppose.”
I pause for a few seconds, brushing my thumb across her temple, wondering if I really want to go there. In the end, my need to know everything I can about her wins out. “Where’s your mom?”
She purses her lips, and her feet point, then flex, and point again before she answers. “I don’t know. She left before I could walk. They met in college. Dad played football. She was a cheerleader. She had me their first year out. Dad’s first year coaching. They weren’t married. They were going to after I was born, but then she had really bad postpartum depression, so they just kept putting it off, and then one day . . . she left. She never came back. Dad never looked for her. That’s all I know.”
“Do you think he misses her?”
She shifts uncomfortably. “I don’t know. He doesn’t act like it. It’s always just been about football. He’d pick us up and move us to wherever. He gets this high from fixing programs, turning them around. You’d think after he was done we could just stay and enjoy it. Enjoy the things he built, but no. It’s always off to the next place.”
“You don’t think he’s doing it on purpose?”
“What? Like he’s looking for her?”
I shake my head. “Like he’s fixing everything else so he doesn’t have to fix himself or fix your relationship.”
She stays silent for a few moments, her eyes directed at the ceiling, while she chews on her lower lip.
“Do you ever think that maybe that’s all people do? Fix some things and break others? And we all just live in this giant cycle where we screw things up and hurt people we love, and then we turn around and try to atone for that by fixing others things. And maybe we’re all just waiting on our turn for a broken heart and the person who will fix it.”
“Are we still talking about your dad?”
She sits up, and her hair falls around her slumped shoulders. She stays silent for so long that I’m pretty sure she’s done answering my questions for the night. Just when I’m about to pull her to me again, she says, “I think I break more than I fix.”
Her voice is low and hollow, and it kind of echoes in my ears, until I feel sick with pain for her.
“You know what you need to do?”
“Grow up?”
I brush all her hair to one side of her neck and lean down to kiss her shoulder.
“You need to dance.”
She shoots me a look over her shoulder. “This again?”
“I’m serious. It’s what fixes you. I can tell by the way you talk about it.”
Her answering smile is sad. “How is it that you can see that when you’ve known me for so little time, and he can’t?”
I know she’s talking about her dad.
“Sometimes it’s hard to see past our own broken pieces.”
I want to say that they’re really not all that different. They’ve just found different ways to heal themselves, but I’m not sure it’s the time for her to hear that. I think she might need to figure that out herself.
“Come on.” I take her hand and pull her to her feet. Together, we walk over to the open space in my apartment where she wrapped her arms around me in a hug not that long ago. I pull us back into that position, but this time I keep her hand in mine. It’s nothing complicated, but she lays her head on my shoulder and we sway together. Someday, I’ll learn how to do more, but for now I hope this is enough.
“What fixes you?” she asks.
A month ago I would have said football. I would have answered her immediately and automatically. But now, if I’m honest, and she always makes me want to be . . .
“I don’t know.”
THE ATMOSPHERE IN the locker room the next day is downright arctic. No one likes our chances for Saturday, me included. And when you stick dozens of young guys in a room, most of whom prefer to deal with their feelings through aggression and physicality, too many of us are itching for a reason to break something.
This morning, Maz, a massive offensive lineman from Alabama, put a hole in the wall in the weight room. Well, two holes technically, one with each fist. And the locker room is short two chairs—one broken by a player and the other by a coach.
I’ve managed, just barely, to stay above it and stay focused, and I suppose that pisses some people off.
Carter, the defensive lineman who I already couldn’t stand for talking about Dallas a few weeks ago, is the first to push me.
“Saw Firecracker sitting on your truck last night, McClain. What’s that about?”