First Step Forward

by Liora Blake

  I speak slowly, hoping he hears every word the first time so I don’t have to holler. “Garrett, I’m going to need you to explain what you just said. Don’t leave anything out.”

  “Fuck.”

  My thoughts exactly, kid. I grind my jaws together and try not to bark into the phone. Garrett sighs.

  “Whitney’s orchard is on the county foreclosure sale list that just came out. Her place is going to auction on the tenth. So unless you somehow fixed that in the last twelve hours, you’re throwing money at a place where she won’t be living soon.”

  Garrett’s explanation takes a few moments for me to fully process. Foreclosure. Auction.

  My gut starts to hurt when I finally take it all in, filter those words through what I already know and spin-dry the rest through what I thought I knew.

  Fact: She needed a loan.

  Fact: She wouldn’t let me help her with that loan.

  Fact: We fell in love.

  Or so I thought. Maybe I was the only one who fell. Maybe I was showing her my underbelly, letting her scratch it while I nuzzled up against her, and she was just playing along. Maybe I was thinking about how to put down roots, while she was figuring out how to pull up stakes.

  “Sorry.” Garrett offers, likely hoping to fill the awkward silence with something, just so he doesn’t have to listen to my unsteady breathing anymore. “I have no idea why I’m the one telling you this instead of her. But that girl’s got pride, you know? Dirt-under-your-nails country pride. I’m sure this isn’t easy for her to talk about.”

  He mutters another apology and I manage to work my way through an obligatory thank-you before hanging up. When I drop the phone onto the coffee table, it clatters loudly.

  The tenth.

  If Whitney was planning to let me in on this shit, she was taking it to the wire. Unless that wasn’t the case. Maybe she had no intention at all of sharing this with me. Maybe I was going to drive down there and find that she’d bailed, no beater truck in the driveway, nothing but a swinging screen door and the faint scent of coconut in an empty house.

  Anger rushes through my body before I can rationalize it away. There were a million moments when she could have told me, when Whitney could have looked me in the eye and trusted me with this—the same way I’ve trusted her to be my safe space. So much that she was at the front of my mind as I walked the sidelines during the last game of the season.

  When the fourth-quarter clock counted down to a win, I stayed rooted in place, refusing to look away from the scene in front of me. I wanted to soak up the moment, make sure I was right there as it came to an end. All the noise. The scent of crisp mile-high air and success. The way the sun sets behind the upper decks of the stadium, blue and magenta, bright and beautiful.

  The idea of leaving behind that part of my life? It hurt. Hurt big and deep and hard.

  But I had a future. A future that was supposedly waiting for me in Hotchkiss.

  Two hours later I’m at our team headquarters, reporting on time to my end-of-year assessment appointment. Inside the training room, it reeks of sweat, salt, and menthol. I drop my gym bag on the floor and swing up onto a padded table to wait for Hunt. He’s still in his office, on the phone, pacing the way he does when he’s trying to figure something out. A stress ball is in his left hand, at work under the flex of his fingers. He catches my eye and nods.

  After another few words, he hangs up the phone and heads my way, shutting the door to his office behind him. Hunt pulls a file off the wall and flips it open, scans a sheet inside, and takes a ballpoint pen from his shirt pocket, yanking the cap off with his teeth.

  “How’s your hamstring?”

  Fucking Hunt. No hello, no mindless small talk. Always straight to the goddam point.

  “Fine.”

  “Any concussion-like symptoms? Headaches, nausea, vision problems, trouble sleeping, or balance issues?”

  “Nope.”

  “The knee?”

  “Still fucked up.” Hunt undoes the clasps on my brace and rolls up my track pants, then proceeds to poke and prod at the remaining bruised areas on my knee.

  He jots a few notes down and keeps his eyes on the file. “Have you made a decision on surgery yet?”

  “No.”

  “Any other injuries you’d like to discuss or have noted in your exit assessment?”

  “No.”

  Hunt lets his pen hover just above the page and I know what’s coming as well as he does. Based on his hesitation, Hunt already knows that for the first time in my career, the answer won’t come easy.

  “Do you consider yourself fit to play football?”

  Yes. I try to get the word out, force it into the universe and demand that any doubt I’m struggling with just vaporize, and recommit myself to the only life I’ve ever known. But doubt is all I have right now. Doubt about this job, doubt about Whitney, doubt about what’s next.

  I grit my teeth together and look over Hunt’s shoulder. He repeats the question.

  Finally, I give him the only answer I can. The one that leaves a door open to this life, the word that will give me, at the very least, options.

  “Yes.”

  Hunt makes note of my answer and hands the form my way. I sign where I always do, but this time, with a shaky hand I’ve never had before.

  My file flips closed and Hunt goes to place it back with the others.

  “Now that we have that out of the way, how about you cut the bullshit? You still want this, Lowry?”

  The sensation of crumbling inside takes over and all that doubt I’ve worked to keep in check begins seeping through every fissure in my body, leaving weakness in its wake. Too many places on my body are broken—from my limbs and ligaments to my heart and soul.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What about the girl? Does she have a dog in this fight? Because take it from a man who’s been married for a while, they’re usually right. Women analyze all the working parts of a problem before they decide what to do. If she’s giving you her opinion, I’d listen to it.”

  I let out a snort. “I thought she did. But as of this morning, it seems she’s failed to clue me in on the results of her deep fucking analysis of the problem.” Hunt creases his forehead. I roll down my pant leg and reset the brace. “Are we done here?”

  When he doesn’t say anything, I grab my bag and head for the door, but before I clear the room, he calls out to stop me. I halt in place but don’t turn his way. If I do, I’ll break.

  “Eight years, kid. That’s how long we’ve known each other. And not once in those eight years have I ever seen you back down from a challenge. Not from a loss or an injury, a bad game or a tough team.”

  He pauses.

  “Don’t start now. Do what you do best, Lowry. Knuckle down and figure out a fix. Whatever you do, don’t back down, not until you’re positive that this is worth walking away from.”

  The door to his office shuts with a click. I can’t decide if I want to storm in there and tell him exactly where to shove his wise words or just clear the building before I put my fist through one of these gleaming trophy cases that line the walls.

  What’s worse is that he’s right. I’ve never let a challenge stand in my way. I gave Hunt that yes because I wanted options. And if Whitney thinks I’m about to walk away without being damn sure I’ve stood up to the challenge of loving her, she’s out of her beautiful, stubborn, crazy mind.

  When I step outside team headquarters, my chest remains tight. Hunt may have reminded me what I’m made of, but that doesn’t mean I’m any less fucked up or pissed off. My knee hurts worse than usual today and now I have a screaming headache to match. I pause under the front-door canopy and adjust the shoulder strap on my gym bag, hoping that will lessen the tension radiating from around my neck.

  When I look up, my day continues to go to shit.

  Bodie Carmichael and his cameraman are just feet away, scuttling in my direction with almost bloodthirsty intention. Bodie slows and
lets his cameraman catch up, then they both approach in step, stopping far too close to me. He doesn’t even bother to ask for permission before launching in.

  “Good to see you up and around, Lowry.” I nod, putting a death grip on the shoulder strap I still have clasped in one hand. Then he does his thing. The obnoxious hair-slicking-and-smirking thing.

  “So, Coop.” He pauses, tilting his head as if he knows my answer will be sound bite–worthy.

  “What’s next?”

   26

  (Whitney)

  At home, Mother Nature turns the weather bitter cold. Frost ripples across all the branches of my trees and snow remains piled up in the aisles between rows.

  It’s too frigid for pruning, so I’ve taken up a spot on my couch for the day, reading while nestled in among a pile of blankets, praying the woodstove will do its job and warm up the house. I’m also awaiting a call from Cooper. His exit assessment with the team trainer is scheduled for today and once it’s finished, he’s supposed to call me with a plan. I’ve decided that today is the day. When he calls, I’m going to own up to everything.

  The doorbell rings and a glance out my front window reveals my ever-tenacious postal carrier on the porch. He’s still rocking his pith-style safari hat, despite the snow swirling around him today and the icicles hanging from my porch.

  I unearth myself from the mass of blankets and make my way to the door, giving a good yank to open it.

  “Whitney Reed?”

  “The one and only.”

  He smiles and shoves forward a small clipboard. “Need you to sign for this one.”

  I scrawl my name where he indicates.

  “Here you go.” He hands an official-looking envelope my way, then slips a pile of regular mail out of his bag, wrapped up with a rubber band. He passes off the second batch. “Thanks. Stay warm.”

  For a man well into his sixties, the postal carrier is surprisingly lithe, skipping down my porch steps and trotting to his Jeep, before firing it up and backing down the driveway in record time.

  I flop back down on the couch and open the important envelope first. Nothing but another this is not a drill letter to remind me that, short of a miracle, in a few days I’ll be without a place to call my own. The other stack is mostly junk: a coupon book, two catalogs, and some flyers from insurance agents. But at the bottom are two letters with return addresses I recognize. The bank in Rifle and the slow money venture in Boulder. My heart starts to beat wildly.

  Ripping open the first envelope, I scan the opening sentences.

  Thank you for your application. Unfortunately, we are unable to offer financing …

  I drop the letter on the coffee table and lean back, trying to quell the rush of disappointment that’s threatening to flood my heart—knowing a sliver of hope remains in the other envelope. With one deep breath and a prayer, I grab it and slide a finger under the flap to tear it open.

  Thank you for the recent inquiry. Based on the information provided, we must decline your application …

  Defeat settles, swift and ruthless. Then a rumble of rejection follows and I’m suddenly exhausted. I held out hope for so long that knowing I’ve met the end of the road is enough to make my entire body weaken.

  No more games. I’m out of prospects and options. Time to start figuring out what’s next.

  A day after my friendly postal carrier delivered the rejection letters, I decide to spend the morning rummaging for empty boxes behind a liquor store. Because I need boxes to pack up my things. And because this sort of thing is always a treat.

  I spot a large box, much bigger than most of what I’ve found, crammed in behind the gigantic metal trash container. Why does it have to be behind the bin, so close to the ungodly aroma that indicates it’s sorely due to be emptied? Because the universe is wholly aligned against me, I think.

  I take a deep breath. Bending my knees, I slouch down to clear the large lid that’s flipped back and propped against the cinder-block building, then shuffle a few steps toward my cardboard prize. Given my awkward position, the way I’m diving straight into the smell, it’s like I’m engaged in a rank round of Twister. Still, I manage to latch on to one of the box flaps and give it a yank. It tears. Doesn’t move a fraction, doesn’t come my way. Just rips open, right down one of the seams. Of course.

  Giving up, I step back, close my eyes, and put one hand to my forehead. I try to drown out the loud rumble of a truck that sounds near enough to run me over, but when the scent of diesel replaces the garbage aroma, for the first time ever, the smell of motor oil and environmental toxins becomes a soothing salve. Thank you, oh great American auto manufacturers, for all that you do.

  “A little early for scavenging, isn’t it?”

  My eyes flip open. The liquor store’s neighbor happens to be the co-op. Which means the truck is Garrett’s. It is definitely a diesel, and probably twenty years old, with oxidized paint so faded you’d swear you can see the bare sheet metal underneath. It’s lifted and loud, personalized by a variety of hunting brand stickers on the side glasses, and has both a headache rack and a shotgun rack.

  I came early to do my foraging, hoping to avoid a run-in with the penny-pinching guy that owns the liquor store, but neglected to factor in the possibility of crossing paths with Garrett as he arrived for work. He slams the door on his truck and sets his coffee cup on the top of the bedside.

  I force a smile. “Oh, no. It’s never too early for this kind of fun.”

  Garrett casts a glance toward my truck and notes the open topper, and the few boxes already tossed in the back. I don’t have to explain why I need the boxes. He, along with everyone else in town, likely saw my name and property listed among all the formal sale notices in the legal section of our small local newspaper. In my youth, I always wanted to do something interesting enough to warrant my name appearing in the paper, but this is so not how I imagined it.

  Garrett strides over and tosses a few boxes around, inspecting them.

  “I hate the fact you won’t be around here anymore, Whitney. It was nice having some new flavor in town. But Denver isn’t too far. Maybe you and Cooper will come visit?”

  Cooper. A wave of dizziness hits and I sway a little in place.

  He never called yesterday. I also did not take the initiative and call him. I simply couldn’t muster the follow-through required. Instead, I made some tea. Ate a few ginger cookies. Watched mindlessly silly cat videos on my laptop. All in all, I made an Olympic sport out of avoiding the whole damn thing.

  My vertigo spell drives Garrett to place a hand under my elbow. “Crap. You look like you’re about to pass out. Sorry, I take it back—you don’t have to come visit. I’ll just keep you as a beautiful, hippie, tree-hugging memory.”

  He drops the tailgate on my truck and gestures for me to come sit down. I shimmy up. “Don’t apologize. It’s just that Cooper doesn’t exactly know about the auction sale.”

  Garrett runs his hand over his mouth and stares straight ahead, his jaw slack. “Fuck.”

  “I know, I know. I’m going to tell him.”

  “No. That’s not what I meant.” He rubs his temples with the tips of his index fingers. “He already knows. He called yesterday and wanted to buy out the co-op with supplies for your place. I know he’s got more money than God, but I couldn’t just let him buy all that stuff; it felt wrong. So I told him.”

  My eyes narrow slightly as I take in Garrett’s words. Thunk, thunk, thunk. All the pieces start to fall into place.

  Cooper knows. That explains why he didn’t call yesterday, because he now knows exactly what a screw-up I am. He knows I’m about to be jobless, homeless, and aimless. Given his ever-ambitious nature, I’m sure hitching his horse to my broke-down wagon scares the hell out of him. As if all that isn’t bad enough, I was too busy dodging reality and he had to hear it from someone else.

  I nod slowly, and when Garrett grasps the resignation in my demeanor, he drops his head into his hands and groans. I pat hi
s leg.

  “Stop groaning, Garrett. This is my screw-up. All me.”

  Garrett drags his hands away from his face.

  “I have no clue why I ended up in the middle of this shit with you two, because I haven’t had a girlfriend since high school and I’m the last person who should give anyone advice on much of anything. But if my girlfriend kept this kind of thing from me it would cut. And cut deep. Nothing worse than feeling like the girl you love is lying to you.”

  “I didn’t lie. I was just a little selective with the details. He has enough going on; I didn’t need to dump my problems on his doorstep.”

  Garrett sighs loudly. “Whitney. He probably wanted you to dump your problems on his doorstep. Fixing shit is good for the ego.”

  He swings down off my tailgate and adjusts his ball cap.

  “My mom watches Dr. Phil, like, all the fucking time. As a result, I have to listen to her recap the episodes whenever I visit. And I’m about to put verbs in my sentences, Johnny Appleseed.”

  Garrett tilts his chin down to lock his eyes on mine, ensuring that he has my attention. For the first time ever, the contented and happy-go-lucky Garrett I’m used to has taken leave. His usual half-grin is gone, replaced by a tight-set jaw.

  “I’d bet my truck on the fact that Cooper fucking Lowry would do anything for you. Including stepping in to fix this. Because I guarantee you this … helping you isn’t a burden. But you shutting him out? That’s probably killing him.”

  Garrett’s eyes go from hurt to hard.

  “You have options, Whitney. That’s huge. I’d have given anything for the same when my dad died. Don’t fucking waste what you’ve got sitting right in front of you, because trust me, losing your land—your dirt—it’s hard to take. You can’t wash it off, even when it’s gone.”

  With my truck bed full of empty boxes, I drive home and call Cooper. He doesn’t answer. Can’t exactly be surprised by that.

  On his voicemail, I do my best to explain myself.

  “Cooper? It’s Whitney. Crap, I don’t know why I just said that. You know it’s me. Anyway, let me start with the obvious. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you had to find out this way—I didn’t mean for that to happen. I want to talk, but … let me deal with this part first, OK? After that … once I figure out who I am after this is over … we’ll talk.”