Amanda Webster is the person I’m currently sitting with in Mug & Mingle, my son by my side, entertained by blowing bubbles into his baby hot chocolate.
The woman insisted on an in-person meeting before I made my decision, which was teetering between no and absolutely not.
“Here are my references.” She slides the piece of paper across the table to me, offering my son a small smile, which he returns briefly before turning to gossip with Donkey, who, of course, has his own shot glass of beverage.
Seems my son is not overly talkative today, which is unlike him.
He’s not himself, and neither am I.
Looking over the sheet of paper, I dip my chin, trying to fake interest. But in reality, I’m only here because I have to be, which makes me feel like a bit of a dick, so the least I can do is give Amanda the benefit of the doubt. She seems… nice enough.
“That’s a… cute fella you’ve got there, Leo.” Amanda gestures towards Donkey, who definitely isn’t cute—he looks as if he’s been dragged through a hedge backwards, beaten with a spike-covered stick, and then thrown into an incinerator—and even Leo knows that. He’s the one who tells Donkey it’s okay to look different.
“Not really,” is all my son says, poking at his stuffed animal’s sagging belly.
Then, Amanda laughs. It’s soft and tinkling, and all I hear isherlaugh—the one I’m trying to forget.
I shouldn’t miss her. She made her choice, and I respect it. I told myself I understood, but seeing someone else about to take her place, drives it home that Flo McKenna just isn’t replaceable.
“Do you like ziplining?” The words spill from me before I can think them through.
Amanda’s face turns puzzled. “Um, ziplining?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve… never done it. I’m sorry… was that a requirement?”
No.
Yes.
Blinking, I peer at my son, who’s fiddling with his fingers in his lap, and my eyes snap back to Amanda, looking at us with questions on her face.
Questions I can’t answer for her.
And answers I don’t want to give her.
“No, it wasn’t.” I quickly stand, taking my son’s hand. “I’m sorry, but we really need to go. I apologise for wastingyour afternoon, but thank you. We’ll reimburse your travel expense for today, and pay you for your time.”
And just like that, we’re out of the coffee shop door.
Because no one, and I mean no one, can replace the woman that I love.
The ball is in my hands, but the crowd is a distant hum. I run. I pass. I tackle. Over and over. I feel like a robot, carrying out commands someone else is putting on me, but no matter how far I sprint, I can’t outrun this deep, Florence McKenna-shaped hole in my chest.
It’s not a physical injury. A doctor can’t help me. The only person who can fix it isher.
There’s this heavy absence upon me, like someone’s taken one of her sewing needles and sliced me open, removing everything, and leaving me empty and wounded.
It’s difficult to think about what I’m doing right now as I attempt to stop a player from passing at our home stadium in Montana, because all that fills my mind is the plane ticket to Georgia I purchased this morning—the trip's brief itinerary was posted on their site.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned from talking to Bennett and my son, it’s that I can’t let this woman go, not at least without telling her how I feel. If she doesn’t feel the same, then so be it, but I am utterly obsessed with everything Flo McKenna is and stands for, and she needs to know it.
I would happily wait. Six months is nothing when I’ve waited thirty-four years for her.
“West, come on, focus!” my coach yells from the bench, and I tell myself that I can fantasise about what it will feel like to have Flo by my side again once I’ve taken a member of the Cincinnati Cougars down. This game is violent—the team are brutal players—but with little care for anything right now other than my team carrying that ball over the goal line and getting my woman back, I throw myself into the present moment.
I take hit after hit, but this time, they don’t bother me because it’s a reminder that I’m alive. I’m here. I’mme, and finally, for someone, it felt enough.
