I shake my head, pushing damp strands of hair back from my face. I’m still sweaty from the diner, but the truth is, thinking about Dean and everything he’s done, my body temperature has spiked. “Coach McAllister and you fixed the washing machine together?”
Rawley nods. “Yeah.” Then he launches into the required update. “Tanner didn’t need a muscle relaxer tonight, so he took Tylenol. Archie took a bath, too.”
I step toward my oldest boy, and sift my fingers through the ends of his shiny dark hair. “Thank you, Rawl. I appreciate it.”
He nods. “I’m going to Jo Jo’s after school on Friday. I’ve been babysitting all week. The Turner’s got a pizza oven. I’m going,” he asserts, and I nod.
“Okay.” I kiss his head. “Game off by eleven. It’s a school night.”
He nods and I close the door behind me, check on the other two boys, and slip into my bedroom. Tomorrow is my first day off that doesn’t involve picking up a vehicle or being sick, so tomorrow I can worry about catching up on laundry and chaos. Tonight?
I lock my bedroom door and dig my phone from my purse before flopping across my bed on my belly, and sending a text to the number on the business card. The number which I memorized immediately.
Thank you so much for what you did tonight
I’ll be up for another two hours or so, if you still wanted to call
I’m about to lock my phone… when it rings.
“You’ve got me on the edge of my seat, here, Clara June,” Dean laughs, his deep voice rattling through me with each word.
I’m telling him about the first time Archie broke an appliance. It wasn’t the washing machine but the microwave, and I’ll never forget the smell. “He was trying to shrink one of his toys because he believed the name micro meant it was a machine to make things miniature.”
Dean laughs again, and every time he does, my heart leaps behind my ribs. It's such a nice laugh, genuine and happy. I love it. I could listen to it every day. “I suppose that does make some sense,” he offers in defense of then-three-year-old Archie’s choice.
“Long story short, those little army men, they don’t get any smaller but they do catch on fire.”
He laughs again, and I roll onto my back, settling my head on the pillows. I glance at my phone. Seventeen minutes and twenty three seconds and counting. I feel like a teenage girl getting giddy at the fact we’ve been talking so long. “I wouldn’t have expected fire. Melting, yes, but fire… that’s interesting.”
“Oh it melted, and the puddle caught flames,” I explain, remembering that morning in my mind very well. Rawley had the stomach bug, and Tanner was all out of whack over some missing Pokemon card, and Archie was oblivious to thechaos and proceeded to attempt army man miniaturization. “Needless to say, our microwave is only two years old.”
“He watched us fix the washer, and brought your tool kit, too. He was a good little sidekick to his brother,” Dean says, the laughter draining from his voice, a tenderness taking over.
I lick my lips and watch the ceiling fan spin lazy circles for a moment before answering. My throat is suddenly dry. “Thanks again for fixing it. I mean, I’m absolutely mortified that you saw our house like that, but really Coach McAllister, I appreciate it.”
“It was nothing. And like I said, Rawley helped a ton. Truth be told, should Archie do it again, I think Rawley could handle the fix on his own,” he says. I can’t help but picture the three of them crouched by the machine, Dean showing Rawley what to do as Archie stands by, his little hands on his hips the way he always does. Warmth rushes through me at the thought of it.
We’ve spent most of this phone call talking about the boys—starting with Dean telling me that Tanner was happy to receive his new jersey, and that he’d given him the shadowbox if he wanted to frame his old one. That turned into football talk, which led Dean to ask me why Rawley never played ball, and before I knew it, I’d explained each of my son’s sport preferences from the time they were three until now.
I clear my throat, and bring myself to ask about how Tanner’s doing in his recovery, in his opinion as my son’s coach. Because I know, wonderful conversation and playful banter aside, that this is why Coach McAllister asked to talk to me tonight. It wasn’t to hear my kids' life stories or to find out how my day was—he’s a sweet man, but he’s calling about his player.
“So,” I start, holding the phone to my ear with one hand, using the other to smooth through the cool, unmade sheets on my bed. “We should probably get to Tanner. How do you think his recovery is going?”
He doesn’t reply for a moment, and I wonder if Tanner is recovering slower than he’d hoped? He’s off of the muscle relaxers, and moving around with more ease than before. Still, he has a mandatory three weeks left of recovery. A lot can happen in three weeks.
“Did you want my opinion on Tanner’s recovery?” he asks, and this question temporarily stumps me. Not because I don’t want to know what he thinks about his star player’s recovery, but because he seems confused that I brought it up. And now I’m confused, too.
“I—well,” I start, pushing up on the bed to lean my head against the wall. “I thought that’s why you wanted to talk tonight. To update me on your assessment of Tanner’s recovery.”
More silence, and my palms grow clammy with nervous sweat.
“Tanner’s recovering really well. He’s doing great. And I’m sure you know this but, he’s way ahead on his schoolwork. He could use some help with his history paper, but he’s doing really great, Clara June,” Dean says, but there’s a lift in his tone, like there’s more he wants to say, but not about Tanner.
“Good,” I say decidedly, nodding my head even though he can’t see me. “That’s good.”
Dean laughs lightly. “It is good. But updating you on Tanner isn’t why I asked you if I could call tonight.”
My heart is beating so hard that stars explode in my periphery, and I swallow against the knot of excitement in my throat. “No?”
