“And the Powerball,” the newscaster says cheerfully, “was a very unusually lucky number thirteen.”
This time there’s no need to say anything. We both know the significance of that one. I bow my head, unable to look at him.
My parents died thirteen months apart from each other.
My mom, after a short battle with breast cancer, on July13.
And my dad, just over a year later, in a car accident on August 13.
Thirteen.
Thirteen.
Thirteen.
It’s a cliché, of course: the unluckiness of that number.
But for me it’s more than that too: it’s a trip wire, a land mine, a scar.
And now, maybe, something more.
As a kid I won the worst kind of lottery possible. The odds of that had to be almost as long as these, the chances at least as unlikely. But now here I am, staring at the television screen, where the numbers I chose are laid out across the bottom like a math problem I can’t possibly begin to solve.
Teddy is staring at me. “Thirteen?”
“Thirteen,” I repeat numbly. My mouth is so dry it’s almost hard to say the word. I blink at him several times, then—in as calm a voice as possible—I say, “You can still find the ticket, right?”
He steps around the couch, walking over to me, but not the way he normally does, not with his usual Teddy strut. There’s something tentative about him now, something a little jangly. I notice for the first time that his shirt has a shamrock on it, the wordLUCKYstamped in faded white letters just beneath it. “Are you saying…?”
“No,” I say quickly.
Teddy breathes out, looking almost relieved. “No.”
“Except…yes.”
“Al, come on,” he says. “Yes or no?”
I swallow hard. “I need to check to be sure. I don’t want to…I don’t want to get your hopes up. But…”
“But?”
“I think…”
“Yeah?”
“We might’ve…” My heart is thundering. “I think you might’ve won.”
Teddy stares at me for a second, uncomprehending, then his eyes get big and he lets out a loud whoop, pumping his fist and whirling around. “Are you kidding?” he asks, punching at the air again. “We won?”
“I think—”
Before I can finish, his arms are around me and he’s lifting me off the ground the way he always does, both of us laughing as he spins, my face pressed against his lucky green T-shirt, which smells of sweat and detergent and sleep, and I fold my arms around his neck and let myself go dizzy.
When he sets me down again, his eyes are shining the same way they were last night.
“We really won?” he asks softly.
I smile. “Happy birthday.”
