I should have known by the little spot of pee on the floor next to my toilet that Archie was in my bathroom today. Between the cold water, the soap, the messy house and the fatigue, my eyes well and I stand under the freezing spray and let it out. A minute of deep, jagged sobs. Just one minute. Anything more than that becomes self indulgent. A minute to get out my despair for this day, and then I turn off the water, wrap up in a questionably clean towel and get out. I find my robe and slip into it, letting my uncombed, wet hair drip down my back as I slip into slippers and head into the kitchen.
Without a relaxing reset, I get to work on the dishes, with suds up to my elbows when someone knocks gently and timidly at my front door. I glance at the clock on the oven, but instead of the time it reads 0:03, flashing. I turn off the timer and see it’s nearing eleven at night.
Swiping my wet hands on a dish towel, I pull my robe closed and move through the cluttered, messy living space to the front door. I flip on the lights and pull the door open, finding Dean McCallister on the porch, soaking up all of that 120 watt bulb. He smiles, and outstretches his arm, where a small bag hangs from his fingers.
“Hey, I’m sorry for stopping by so late. I called Tanner earlier and he said you were working a double.” He nods to the bag. “I wanted to give this to you, to give to Tanner.”
I swallow, finding a lump in my throat. Today has been… aday. Not completely awful, but nothing to write in my diary about either. If I had time to write in a diary.
“Hi,” I manage, surprised by how thin and frail my voice comes out. Then I remember the crying in the shower and I clear my throat. “Hey there, Dean.” I take the bag. “What is it?”
He nods toward the bag again, and says, “he was asking about it, and it would’ve taken another week to get the new one in.”
The bag sails to the ground as I hold Tanner’s soft jersey in my hands, the repair stitches done so well, it’s almost not obvious that this is the original. I turn it over a few times, remembering where it was cut, noticing how smooth the seams are. I look up at Dean. “How did you do this?” My stomach clenches as he steps apart, his leather boots shiny beneath the porch light. He’s in jeans—fitted because I don’t think those thighs and that ass allow for anything less than—and a long-sleeved Bluebell Bruisers High shirt, his hat covering that swathe of strawberry golden hair of his.
“I got it from the nurse the next day. She’d saved it, thankfully, and the rest was… well, my mom.”
My eyes lift from the jersey, one of Tanner’s most cherished possessions—one he’s been asking about since that night—and gravitate toward Dean’s.
“I can’t sew, but my mom is a queen with the needle. She’s been working on it. I wanted to have it back to him when he got home yesterday but she finished tonight, so I thought I’d bring it by.”
“He wouldn’t have known you had brought it the day he got home. He was pretty out of it that evening, you know, living out the last of those IV meds.” I want to keep looking at him, but I can’t help but cut my focus away to look at the jersey again.
Damn my eyes. They get warm, and there’s a tightness at the back of my nose and throat, too. I swallow against the emotion, and do my best to reconcile that this insanely nice gesture only makes me feel some type of way because of the day I had.
He fixed his quarterback’s jersey. It’s nice, yes, but I don’t need to stand here and cry about it.
Finally, I lift my eyes to Dean’s again. “That was extremely thoughtful. He’s going to be so happy.” I don’t know why I do it, but then I step toward him, out of my house and onto the porch, and I rock to my toes, wrap my arms around his shoulders, and I give him a hug.
With wet hair, in a robe, looking like something that got peeled out of the microwave, I give Dean McAllister a long hug. “Thank you,” I tell him again as I pull back, moving to close my robe. The ends of my hair wet my chest, and Dean’s eyes move over me for a moment before coming back to my face.
“You worked late, eh?”
I nod. “Took a double.” I shrug like it’s no big deal, and that I’m not wiped. “One of the waitresses' kids was sick so I took her shift.” I look down at the jersey hanging from my hand. Probably the nicest thing anyone—aside from me—has ever done for Tanner. “Thank you again for this. He’s totally gonna flip, in a good way.”
Dean reaches up, touching the brim of his large Cattleman as he tips his head in gracious acceptance. “Glad to get it back to him. If it was his lucky jersey before, it’s really lucky now, since he’s gonna be just fine.”
I smile. “Yeah, I guess it is.”
A faded blue car drives by in the background, and somewhere down the street, a dog barks. Dean’s eyes twinkle. “I’m really glad he’s okay. He’s a good kid. He’s not just thequarterback because he’s good. He’s the quarterback because he’s a good player, friend, and student. Through and through.” Another tip of his hat, and I find my chin threatening to wobble from his kind words. “You’ve done well. You should be proud.”
“Th-thank you,” I manage, tucking a thick chunk of uncombed wet hair behind my ear.
“Well then,” he says, stepping off the porch, back onto the walkway, eyes still lingering on me. “Have a nice night, Clara June.”
I smile. “Thank you. You too, Coach.”
I close the door, twist the deadbolt and put the chain on, wearing an ear to ear grin the entire time. I leave the dishes for the morning, and the sack lunch, too. Instead, feeling a million pounds lighter, I slip into my bed, pull the covers up and close my eyes, ready for sleep.
Dean McAllister made my day.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
DEAN
I dropthe packet onto her desk, jarring her from where she’s intensely focused on her computer screen.
