He was always the good son, brother, friend, and warrior. So was I, once upon a time. But I cannot fathom how I’ll ever wake up from this cold reality I inhabit.
At last, I grunt in response to Everly’s question.
It’s the best I can muster as I have a mini-battle inside between the dying version of myself and the fragments of the former me that continue to fight for self-preservation and connection.
“Wonderful,” she says brightly. “I’m going to teach you to offer everyone you come across the best version of yourself, teach you to rise to whatever occasions you encounter, and to be gracious even when you’re inclined to offer the opposite.”
“I’m pretty sure you memorized that from the contents of the file.”
“Face it ‘til you ace it,” she singsongs.
“Do you mean fake it ‘til you make it?”
“I meant to swap the letterKforC. No one likes fake, Mr. Adams.”
I’ve been faking my way through life for the last several months and am doing just fine. Faking that I’m okay. Faking that I’ve moved on. Faking that I dropped the ball when it came to my son’s care and well-being. Faking that I’m not married. Granted, I haven’t so much as spoken to another woman who’s not my mother since marrying Everly, but I don’t think there’s much real about me left.
“Face the failure, the misfortune, the financial ruin. Face the pain.” Surprising strength backs Everly’s otherwise soft and sunny presence.
But I’m a storm cloud and reply, “How’s that working out for you?”
“Like a charm, sir.” As if she knows the exact game of obstinance I’m playing, she wears her sunny smile but twists the ring on her finger.
Face it ‘til you ace it is a trite cliché and couldn’t possibly penetrate the hurricane I’m in. Not that I’ve bothered trying, but none of that will change the outcome. Bran will still be gone.
I can think of plenty of instances when I gave people my worst, turned my back on opportunities, and received grace instead of offering it. I’m not proud of that, but Everly is talking about thriving when I’m barely surviving. I don’t think changing letters around in words will turn rock into muscle tissue and resume the ticking of my heart.
“Here at Blancbourg, we offer full-spectrum image improvement along with personal and professional relations makeovers. We’ll pinpoint the specific areas that you need to work on and go from there. Sound good?”
No, it sounds terrible, but I won’t rain on her positivity parade.
I grunt.
She takes out a pen and a notebook from her purse. “Please tell me a bit about yourself.”
Ironic that my wife knows nothing about me. Does she want a bio? Vitals? Height, weight? Football stats? I have no idea where to start or what to say.
At my silence, she makes a note on a page in her notebook.
I lean in, curious about what she wrote.
Like a seesaw, she leans back, taking her notebook with her. “It’s important for me to take stock of where you’re at so I know where to go. We’ll custom-tailor all of your lessons to highlight your strengths and transform your weaknesses, but I can’t help you if I don’t know anything about you.”
I grunt. It’s my usual response, even though she isn’t the usual speaker. Something about Everly, or this peculiar situation, transfixes me. The way her lips move. The way she touches the ends of her hair over her shoulder. The way she holds the pen. A real husband would know all these fine details and what they mean. My brow furrows.
“You do realize that in order for me to give the headmistress here at Blancbourg, along with your commissioner and coach, a favorable review, indicating that you passed the program, you have to speak and interact. This isn’t a case where you can pull on your helmet and zone out.”
I’d rather be on the field. Anywhere but in this pressure cooker collision of my past and present. I grunt again because I’m afraid of what nastiness will spill out if I open my mouth—how unfair and stupid and unreasonable this is.
She sighs, steaming ahead. “It’s my understanding that we’ll begin our time here at the school, then I’ll shadow you for several weeks in your regular environment. After our time together, you’ll be tested and attend The First Annual Boston Bruisers Charity Ball.”
“The first thing you should know about me is that I don’t say much and prefer to be an observer. The second thing is I don’t suffer fools or take any nonsense.” My voice is like tires on gravel.
“But you’ll dish it out?” she challenges me and points at a moon-gate article clipping in her folder. The backsides of my teammates Declan, Wolf, Chase, and me blur but are still there for all the world to see.
I grunt.
“Is there a third thing?” she asks.
