Love is now not a big enough word. I squeeze his arms, pressing my lips to his cheek near his ear. “Youwilldeserve it. It doesn’t cost anything.”
“I amsoin love with you.” The words flow out of him like he’s been holding them in.
I feel them pour through me, over me. They’re as strong as his arms that wrap around me. The door hinges creak behind us, and a janitor rolls a cleaning cart inside. Chris smiles down at me, looking more composed. I reach for his hand and tug.
“Come on. Let’s go home.”
Home.I want to laugh at how different that word sounds than it used to. It doesn’t matter whether it’s my house or Chris’, whether it’s a co-lease or not. Home is wherever he and I are. Together.
CHAPTER 22
Chris
Sitting on my parents’ couch, arm proudly and protectively draped over the back of Remy’s shoulders, I smile at his amusement over my nephews teaching Mom how to use her new smartphone. She looks up over her bifocals at my nephews, who are groaning over her last question about the confounding technology in her hands, and then flashes Remy a look of exasperation like a cry for help. He chuckles and reassures her it will be second nature to her in no time.
Last week, when I told her I was bringing someone home with me for Christmas and that someone happened to be a guy I was dating whom I’d known in college, there was the expected pause. I had kind of hoped Alice would have dropped a few hints, so I wouldn’t even have to have the conversation, but I’m glad she didn’t. I’m too old to have my older sister fight my battles. Plus, Remy deserves a relationship with a man who will go to bat for him if necessary.
‘Well…what’s his name?’
Her excited reply when I told her the news will live in my memory forever. I think I was expecting the worst because I’ve been primed to expect the worst for so long. Her barely checked glee of a mother hoping her child would finally settle down with someone was a nice outcome instead. She’s as wonderful as she’s always been, even if the first person I ever brought home endedup being a nicemanrather than the nicewomanshe used to wish for me.
He baked a tray of seven-layer brownies and brought them with us, which pretty much won her approval the second we walked in the door. I can’t say I blame her, but my nephews better not have eaten all of them. I have plans for the leftovers coming home with us. My boyfriend is a damn good cook. Seeing her and Remy in a moment of solidarity now warms my heart. This feels like it could be the start of many more happy years of him at my side for family gatherings. Almost.
My father’s easy chair sits empty to my right, the Hawai’i Bowl playing on the living room television. I saw him slip into his den earlier, which isn’t uncommon for him on game days, but we always watch whatever bowl is on in the living room on holidays. I know I’m being avoided, and it’s pissing me off more and more with each minute that ticks by without him resurfacing.
He barely said a word at dinner, and certainly none to Remy. A hand squeezes my kneecap. I find Remy’s concerned face looking at me.
“You all right?”
“Yeah.” I give him a reassuring smile and a peck on the cheek, even though I’m pretty sure he knows I’m lying. Motioning to the door of my father’s den, I let out a sigh. “I’d better go get this over with. I’ll meet you upstairs after?”
“All right.”
He nods, trying to look encouraging. The fact that he looks worried I might be faced with something unpleasant compounds my aggravation with my father. How can anyone not see that this man deserves kindness or, at the very least, acknowledgement?
Hoisting myself off the couch, I pass by Alice, who’s sitting on her husband Dean’s lap with her head on his shoulder while he’sfast asleep in the recliner. She yawns, and I ruffle her hair. I get a half-hearted swat from her, but she smirks.
“Lightweights,” I tease.
“Food coma,” she mumbles, closing her eyes.
The door to Dad’s den looks equivalent to a gallows as I stare at the handle. On the other side, adversity. Always. Except, I can’t be the pacifist son this time. Pulling the lever, the door swings open, and the sound of the Hawai’i Bowl immediately touches my ears, dubbing over the echo of it out in the living room behind me.
His gray eyes flick to mine momentarily from where he’s sitting in his leather chair, legs crossed, and he nods, raising his bottle of beer before fixing his gaze back on his TV screen. The sleeves of his red sweater are rolled up his forearms, exposing the memories of strength there on his weathered skin.
I used to be in awe of this room when I was younger. I viewed it as a trophy room of my father’s life. Staring at a poster on his wall of me in my NFL uniform, I remember how proud I was when my achievements made it into his beloved space. Below the poster, framed pictures of me playing in college and high school sit in a row on a shelf. I look determined and in the zone in them. All I see in the NFL poster, however, is turmoil in my eyes. For years after my accident, I thought maybe I hadn’t been grateful enough for my successes. It was easier to appreciate them once I had regrets than to live them before I did, I suppose.
“It’s a miracle Conrad made it to the bowl,” Dad comments as a play recap is broadcast over the TV. “You would have had twice as many yards as him.”
Would have…
I know he’s just posturing, reliving the good old days by comparing my former abilities to the college player in the game who’s playing, but it hits the wrong way today. I’m tired of beinga ‘was’ instead of an ‘is.’ Sometimes it feels like I stopped being his son the second I crashed into that guardrail.
“What did you think of Remy?” I ask, still staring at that conflicted face in the poster.
“That’s a good program they started with that center at the college.”
I guess his ears were working at dinner when Mom, Dean, and Alice were asking Remy about his job. Ironically, though, the family member at the table with the most knowledge of sports injuries didn’t contribute an ounce of conversation. His response about Remy is no response.
