He pinches his shirt, fanning his chest a little. “Even on a warm day?”
I nod. “Even on a warm day.” I need to walk away. Tables are waiting, and Dolores is coming on shift in a few minutes. She’ll take his table, and I likely won’t get the chance to talk to him again before he leaves. And I don’t know why, but that makes me a tiny, itty bit irrationally sad.
Nervous and uncomfortable for having told him what I like, I start to rattle off the boys orders, providing a barrier. “Rawley likes the club with extra bacon, Tanner always gets the chicken tenders and fries, and Archie surprisingly loves himself a Reuben.” I don’t know why I'm saying this, but he’s listening, his eyebrows lifting to his hairline when I tell him my youngest likes arguably the most disliked sandwich on the menu. “I know—you wouldn’t think a kid would like sauerkraut, right?” I shake my head, suddenly so aware of my dull Dawn-washed hair, and the bags beneath my eyes. “That’s Archie, though.”
He smiles. “And you like the grilled cheese and tomato soup.”
I cannot help but return his smile. “I do.”
“Good to know,” he says. “How’s Tanner doing at home? I was hoping I could swing by and see him, maybe check on his history paper, too.”
He wants to visit Tanner, and that melts me a bit more than it should. Years of neglect from a husband will do that, and I’m referring to when Troy was still here, living under the same roof as me. By the time he left, sometimes I think his abandonment was a gift. “I’m sure he’d love to catch up on the team, and I know he’d love to see you.”
Dean’s reactive smile flutters through my veins. “Did he like the jersey?”
I shake my head and slap my palm to my forehead. “Oh my gosh, I am so sorry. I should have called you or had him call you. I’m such a jerk. He loved it, and that was so nice of you.” A mortification sinkhole opens up beneath me. This man went to the hospital, found my son's nurses, got the jersey, had his mother fix it and drove it to my house at night because he knew my son wanted it.
And I never even followed up.
Dean’s laugh is hearty, rich and surprising. It leaves bumps down my back and my nipples achy. “Clara June, don’t worry. I know you got your hands full with the boys and the car, and all that. I’m not asking because I want to be thanked, I’m only asking because Tanner’s new jersey came in early today. And I thought maybe he’d like to shadowbox the old one, unless of course he thought it was silly we pieced it back together.”
“Shadowbox?” I repeat while still processing the fact that this man is thinking on a sentimental level for my son. SomethingIhave only ever done.
“Well, it’s his first year as starting quarterback. Maybe one day when he’s on the Forty-Niners, he’ll want to see where it all really started.” Dean shrugs, as if the idea is just whatever. No big deal.
“That’s a really cool idea, and a good way to keep the old jersey alive. He’s sentimental about it, that’s for sure.”
“Well I’ll bring the new one with me, and the frame for the old one. I picked one up, in case he needed something to do aside from classwork,” Dean says as Dolores rushes past me toward a table, tying her apron behind her as she does. She’s not a single mom but she's addicted toDays of Our Livesreruns and hasn’t quite mastered recording live TV to watch later.
“I’ll be over in a sec, hun,” she says over her shoulder, alluding to Dean.
“That’d be nice. Thank you, that will definitely bring up his spirits.” As much as I want to slide into the booth and talk to Dean for the rest of my shift—which is genuinely not something I’ve ever wanted to do with any man—I have to get back to work. “Well, Dolores will be taking over your table so, I hope you have a nice meal.” With one last smile, my cheeks flaming and my insides roiling with undeniable heat, I start to walk away but Dean stops me.
“Clara June,” he starts and from two paces away, I turn.
“Yes?”
“Think I might be able to give you a call tonight? When you’re off?” he asks, and I catch a glimpse of the gold ring adorning his pinky, the Bluebell Bruisers State Championship ring from last year, which is small town equivalent to a Superbowl ring. The ring reminds me of what I had momentarily forgotten: Dean is Tanner’s football coach, this phone call is likely to talk about Tanner and everything going on with him.
Right?
“Ah, sure. I’m probably gonna be here till eight.” I chew the side of my cheek. “Is that too late?”
“Na,” he says, “that’s just fine. And I know you’re busy. I won’t take more than a few minutes of your time, I promise.”
I would give you all the minutes. “Alright.”
I go to leave but once again, he stops me. “Text me so I have your number,” he says before hesitance wedges in. “If you still have my card.”
I know exactly where that card is. It’s in my nightstand drawer, and why I put itthere, I have no idea. It’s a business card. Tanner’s coach and teacher’s contact information because my son is on long-term independent study and he’s healing from a sports injury. Having his number makes sense.
Putting in the nightstand drawer where I keep my vibrator, on the other hand, makes very little sense.
“I have it.”
“Great.” His smile knocks the wind out of me in the best, most scariest ways. “Looking forward to speaking with you later.”
I just smile, and then instead of walking to my next table, I float.
