“They repaired both?”
“Yep. I’m going to have a nice scar down the front of my knee.”
My gaze skips to his wrapped-up leg and then back to his face. “What happens next?”
“Ice and elevation for the next week.” He leans forward, grabs the ice pack, and tosses it to me. I get up to put it back in the freezer while grabbing him another one.
“This is my fault,” I blurt out as I hand him the frozen one.
His brows draw down as he watches me sit. “Man, it’s not your fault.” He shakes his head.
“How can you say that? I made the call. I knew they knew what play we were running. I saw the guy, you didn’t. I knew he was coming for you from behind. I should have thrown it away.”
“What makes you think I didn’t know that guy was there? I knew. I saw him on the sprint out before I made the turn. I didn’t know who was going to hit first, but I knew they were both coming for me. I should have adjusted differently for the hit. This isn’t your fault.”
Guilt is an unfortunate thing. So often things happen that are out of our control, but something deep down in our conscience tells us we’ve done something wrong. Guilt, remorse—they create a helplessness that leaves us feeling out of control, and being in control is something I work very hard at.
“We’ll just have to agree to disagree.” I lean back in the chair and prop my right ankle over my left knee.
“You have to free yourself, Bryan. I know you. I can’t have you carrying this around as yours. We play a sport where, at any point in time, something can happen, something as simple as landing at the wrong angle while running or falling off balance on an arm. This isn’t on you. Don’t punish yourself—I can’t have that and this at the same time.” He points to his leg.
“I don’t know how,” I tell him honestly, running my hand over my face and through my hair.
“Well, you have to. That’s football, and that’s just the way it goes. Sometimes we make the big plays, and sometimes we don’t, but we all live for them. We’re all willing to take risks. I wanted it as bad as you did. Don’t forget that.”
I know he’s right, but it’s also going to take time. Jack is one of my best friends, and losing him as a teammate just doesn’t feel right.
“So, Meg?” I ask, smirking and changing the subject.
“Nah, it’s not like that.” He glances away from me and over at Zeus, who’s curled up on the couch next to him, running his hand through his fur. “I met her at Zach’s place last summer—you remember, at the wrap party—and we’ve kind of kept in touch through social media.”
Interesting. Jack and one of the three legs of the tripod that is Lexi, Shelby, and Meg. I didn’t see it before, after hearing stories about her from Lexi and Zach, but maybe now I do.
“Well, I’m glad she was with you.”
“Me too. I was surprised to see her when they brought her into the locker room—didn’t even know she was coming to the game. Nothing like having a hot girl hold your hand while you bawl like a baby.”
“You showed her your soft side—girls like that.” I laugh, and he cracks a smile.
“Whatever,” he grumbles. “What about Lexi?” His eyes narrow and he studies me for a reaction. He knew we were off—I think in reality everyone knew we weren’t right—but they all gave me the space I needed.
“She’s good.”
“Y’all good?” he asks.
“Yeah, we’re good.”
“It’s about time you got your head out of your ass. It pains me to think of all that sweet deliciousness we’ve missed out on.”
“We?”
“Well, yeah. We rarely see one without the other, and well, pie, man. You know how I feel about pie.” He rubs his stomach.
“I would argue you feel that way about all food.”
“What can I say? Food is my love language.”
I can’t help but laugh. There’s a little of our Jack shining through.
“Are you gonna be all right?” I ask him.
He lets out a deep sigh. “Yeah, I just need to get to a place where I can start rehab and see what happens. I just keep trying to remind myself that, no matter what, it was a good run. I made it in the game a lot longer than most.”
“You have, but we don’t know that it’s over, so hang in there.” I can’t think about it being over. I can’t go there at all. “What are you going to do in the meantime?”
His eyes find mine, and he shakes his head while shrugging his shoulders and frowning.
“I don’t know.”
Turkey Tetrazzini Casserole
THREE DAYS AFTER we returned from the game, Bryan packed a large bag and followed behind me to my house in Oakwood. It wasn’t an easy three days, but we’re making progress. A bruised heart doesn’t happen easily for a guy like Bryan, and when it does, it takes longer to heal.
The team had their postgame debrief, and I’m not sure what was said, but Bryan came home with his shoulders a little more relaxed. Between the loss of Jack and the loss of the game, he’s been a little lost in his head, but today, his eyes are clearer, which means he’s on the road to mental recovery.
As for me, it feels good to be back home, and it feels right to have him here. During the weeks we spent apart leading up to the game, I’d forgotten how empty this house can feel, but now with him here, it feels complete. Yes, we are still working through things, as normal couples do, but we’re happy, and I believe we’re in a stronger place because of it.
Currently, he’s out for a run around the property, and I’m making us hand pies for dinner, small handheld pies that hold either a sweet or savory filling. Do I make pies every day? No—there’s no way we could eat that much—but the handhelds provide me a way to get my hands messy and my mind lost in thought. It’s like meditation for me, and whether I’m contemplating life or just daydreaming, it clears my head and cleanses my soul.
What a lot of people don’t realize is there’s an art to making a pie, especially the pie crust. The characteristics most desired are flakiness, crispness, and tenderness, and all of this is achieved by three ingredients: flour, fat, and a liquid. People who make pies all have their own opinions about the best way these three ingredients should be chosen and mixed, but like art, the beauty lies in the eye of the beholder.
Sliding a pan of root vegetables and ground turkey simmering in a romesco sauce to a cold burner, I walk to the refrigerator to grab the dough.
People always ask for insight on why my crust is so good, and I tell them four things.
First, always chill the dough for an hour, at least. Chilling it allows the present gluten strands time to settle down and relax, and it lets available moisture find its way back into all parts of the dough. This makes it easier to roll out and cuts down on any shrinking during the baking process.
Second, you have to use your hands and knead each mound just enough to form each one into a disk. The trick here is not to over-knead, to do just enough so the dough holds together without cracking. There’s a fine line, because if you go too far, kneading develops gluten, which will toughen the dough, and no one wants tough dough as a pastry crust.
Third, roll from the center outward. This helps with the density of the dough and allows you to get the most out of it.
And fourth, if your pie has a two-layer crust, you must poke a hole or put slits in the top of the pie when it’s baking or it will turn soggy. Vents must be created to let the water vapor escape.
The sound of the front door opening and the screen door slapping behind it pulls my attention as I watch Bryan walk into the kitchen. I still find it surreal that he’s here, and my stomach drops at the sight of him: no shirt, athletic shorts, hair sticking straight up, and skin glistening with sweat. He props his hands on his hips as his breathing slowly returns to normal.
“You should come with a warning label,” I tell him.
His lips twitch as his eyes wander over the length of me, and my heart stutters.
“I need to tell you something.” There’s worry on his face, and I feel slightly alarmed.
“Okay, what?” I ask, wiping my hands across my apron.
“A tree branch fell into the backside of the barn, and it, umm . . . it caused some damage.” He grits his teeth in a don’t shoot the messenger type way.
“What! You’ve got to be kidding me.” Untying the apron, I throw it on the counter and storm outside.
He follows.
Great. Just great.
The air isn’t as cool as it has been, but the clouds overhead are dark and indicate something is coming. I do love a good cold front, but with that means rain. I keep overflow of the jarred pie fillings in the barn, and the last thing I need is them getting ruined.
Rounding the side of the house, I see what he’s talking about and suck in a huge gasp of air.
“No,” I whisper to myself, but I know he hears.
Running into the barn, I stare up at the ceiling and see the sky.
Why? Just why can’t I catch a break? Is it that hard, Universe, to pick on someone else for a while? And this isn’t just a little damage—it’s huge! A ginormous branch from the oak tree that hangs over it fell, tore off at least half of the roof, and damaged one wall. My mouth hangs open and I just shake my head.
I can’t stop shaking my head.
Looking around, I see nothing seems too damaged on the inside; there’s just debris everywhere. My jars are kept in durable storage cabinets, and my one saving grace is that I’ll be able to file this one with my homeowners insurance. Only, I still have to pay the deductible, and right now I just don’t have it.
Pacing around, I cover my face with my hands and do my best not to cry. Bryan doesn’t need to see me have a level-ten meltdown over this, even though that’s what is happening on the inside.
He calls my name to get my attention, and I stop, turning to look at him. He’s standing in the doorway, and his arms are crossed over his chest. At whatever he sees on my face, his expression shifts to one of understanding, and his arms drop. How could he understand? He has no idea.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this.” He widens his eyes like I should know what’s coming. “And although I’m sure you have your reasons for not telling me about all the many problems you’ve had with the house lately, I didn’t like hearing about it from my friends. Not cool. I’ll be paying for this.” He nods toward the back of the barn.
Thinking back, I know the only person I said anything to was Camille, and even then, it wasn’t all at once, just tidbits here and there. So, yeah, whatever—he may have heard about it, but he’s out of his mind if he thinks this is happening the way he wants it to.
I prop my hands on my waist and glare at him. “Like hell you will. This is my house. I’ll take care of it.” My eyes blur with angry tears.
I’m so mad—mad about the fact I have another financial problem, annoyed that he knows about all the other problems, and frustrated that he now thinks he can just come in here and do as he pleases.
He tilts his head and watches me. “You should have told me,” he says calmly.
“No, I should not have. This is my problem, not yours. I’ve been doing things on my own for quite a while now, and I’m doing just fine. Also, I didn’t think it necessary to tell you when you had other things—more important things to worry about. Did you suddenly forget about that?”
“Why would you think these things that’ve been happening to you wouldn’t be important to me?”
“It never was before, not to you or James.” I cross my arms over my chest, and he rubs his hand back and forth through his hair.
“Wow. Okay, shots fired. I’ll take that one, but you’re wrong, and you know that now. You’ve always been important to me, everything about you, and whether you believe it or not, should you have ever needed anything and reached out, I would have been here in a heartbeat.”
I know he’s right, and I do need to move past him leaving me—twice—because at the end of the day, I truly believe the sincerity behind his words. Still, this is my house, my business, my problems.
“I’m paying off any expenses you’ve incurred with this house,” he says, so matter-of-factly.
“No, you are not!” I yell at him.
He raises his voice back. “Yes, I am. I understand you, Lexi. I always have. I know this is your house and you feel the need to do it on your own. I know you think you have to be fully independent to be successful, but that’s not how you and I are going to work. I have the money, and you’re going to let me use it.”
“That’s right, it’s your money, to spend on yourself, for your things, not mine. I never asked for this, nor do I have expectations of this. I get it, you have a lot of money, but we aren’t about the money. You do you, and I’ll do me. Done. Period.” I pinch my lips together and square my shoulders to let him know this is a closed subject.
“No, not done, and as for things that are mine—well, you are mine, and I take care of what is mine. Don’t you get it? A huge part of me doing everything I’ve done for the past ten years is so I could one day be good enough for you, to support and take care of you.”
I start aggressively shaking my head.
“Yes, again, I know how independent you are, know you don’t need anyone, blah blah blah.” He waves his hand in the air. “But if you’re in this with me”—he points to himself—“like you say you are, you’re going to have to let me do things for you, like this.” He points to the back of the barn.
“Ugggh!” I let out a loud groan and stomp around in the dirt.
It’s not that I feel the need to have everything picture-perfect for him or for the world; I just wanted to do it all myself. I do want to be with him, but this is my house, my business. I’m not a charity case. I don’t want a handout, not from him, not from anyone, even if I need it. Why does this have to be so hard? I know these problems happen to everyone, but I swear it feels like they just happen to me.
“It’s not fair, Lex.” His voice pulls me from my thoughts, and I stop to look at him. “If the roles were reversed, would you not offer to help me?” He asks like I’ve somehow wounded him.
Moving to stand in front of him, I raise my chin and defiantly say, “That’s different.”
“How? Why? It’s not different.” His gaze bores into mine as he leans down in my direction.
“I don’t know. It just is.”
“Well, get over it,” he says in a low tone. “Besides, if I’m going to live here half the time, as far as I see it, the house is mine too,” he challenges, staying eerily calm.
Stunned, I take a step away and stare at him. Even though I know we’re together again, I hadn’t really thought about the logistics yet. I don’t know if that was for self-preservation, just in case, or what, but now that he’s said this, I’m not sure I’ll be able to think of anything else. My anger quickly dissipates and excitement flutters in.
“You want to live here with me?” I tilt my head to the side a little.
“I don’t want to live in the tree house.” He smirks.
“You used to love it there,” I sass back.
“No, I loved you there. It was where I got to be with you.” He takes a step closer, and I have to tip my head back to look at him.
I purse my lips, and we slip into an intense staring contest as I think about what he’s just said. In my mind, it was always I had my house and he had his, but if we’re going to be together, which I’m praying will be the case indefinitely, maybe he’s right. This house would be his, too, and his house would be mine as well.
“Do I get to decorate your house?”
His lips twitch. “You get full cart blanche to decorate our houses.”
Our houses.
That�
�s when all the remaining fight leaves me and I surrender.
His handsome face. His sweet words. His unselfish heart.
How could I not?
“Fine, I’ll let you help with the repairs.” I concede, and a pleased smile spreads across his face, flashing the dimple that makes me weak.
“Good. I’m glad you see things my way.” He reaches for my hand, and our fingers tangle together.
“What I see is you standing here in front of me without your shirt on, and it’s making me stupid.” My eyes drift down to the broadness of his shoulders and the muscles of his arms.
He laughs.
“But seriously, that’s it. I don’t want your money, so don’t expect me to be sitting around waiting for handouts.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He grins, wrapping his other hand around my face.
“Don’t make fun of me. I’m serious.” I pout.
Blue like an endless spring sky whips through me as he holds me under his adoring gaze.
“Lex, I’m not making fun of you. I want to support you in everything you do and watch you fly. I love that you want to continually express yourself through being creative and an individual. I appreciate that you are different from everyone else, because, well, everyone else is boring, and to me you are everything. I am never going to try to dull your spirit or take things away from you. I want to be the person who helps you shine. You and me, together—we’ve got this.”
“We’ve got this?” I ask, my nervous eyes imploring him to reassure me that, no matter what, we’ll always be okay.
His thumb runs across my cheek as he leans down to kiss the corner of my mouth. It’s so light and so soft, the tension in my body instantly eases, and with his next three little words, I let the past go and begin dreaming of tomorrow.
“Yeah, we do.”
Pie Dough
Last Slice of Pie (Starving for Southern Book 2) Page 23