Dylan insists on us sleeping in the same bed. “I won’t be able to sleep without you by my side.”
“You’ll be so uncomfortable,” I say as I climb in next to him. “You don’t fit in this bed as it is.”
I point to his feet hanging off the end.
Like this town, the bed’s too small for Dylan. He’s too big for it. Maybe he always was. It’s difficult for me to comprehend because this whole experience is so the opposite of my childhood.
“You’re treated like a God here, aren’t you?” I say.
He turns me away from him so he can pull my back into his chest. He puts his arm over me and curls his body against mine. “Outside of my cousins, who are there for me no matter what, the rest of it doesn’t mean anything. It’s not like I’d call anyone in my hometown up in the middle of the night with a problem. It is what it is. And what it’s always been is football.”
* * *
I wake up early. I glance at the time, but the clock’s not set correctly. I never noticed last night, but right now the time reads three p.m. Not very helpful. I crawl out of bed to go pee and then turn on my phone.
Eight o’clock. I grab my clay and roll of paper towels. Then I sit down on the floor by the bathroom sink, which is outside the actual bathroom.
I’ve been sculpting for about an hour when Dylan, all sleepy and adorable-looking and wearing nothing but his boxers, finds me. “You could have done this on the other bed. You wouldn’t have woken me.”
I smile at him. “It’s okay. This spot was perfect.”
“What’d you make?” He sits down next to me and gives me a kiss.
“Bill. Not Bill all the time, just this specific side of him. Pretty much the worst side of him.” I show him Bill’s angry face and curled lip. “But it’s not for keeps. I promised Lilla I’d do this…” I take my fist and smash the sculpture back into just clay.
Dylan reaches out like he wishes he’d stopped me. “But you could have put that into your collection.”
“I don’t want Bill in my collection. I don’t need it. I can sculpt something else.”
Dylan tentatively touches the clay. “I only used clay once. For art class in junior high. The teacher said I didn’t have any creative talent.”
I frown. “That’s why I dropped out of art school. Teachers don’t always know what they’re talking about.”
“Really? I thought they were like coaches.”
“I don’t know about that. I just know they’re not always right. Nobody has no creative talent.”
I take the clay and put it in front of him. “Try it. I’m going to take a shower.”
* * *
Dylan’s hands are full of clay when I come out of the bathroom. “I don’t know,” he says with a laugh. “But I’m pretty sure this takes some talent.” He shows me his mound of a hunched-over person. “Okay. Now we’ll crush mine, too.”
“Wait, let me see it.” I sit down with him and look for a minute. Then I turn to him. “The burdens?”
He studies the figure he sculpted. “You think?”
“This man is straining under the burdens, the pressure to be perfect, to uphold the town and his family.” I touch it gently. “It’s good, Dylan. Really.”
Dylan stares at it and then takes his fist and smashes it back to nothing.
“Like a fresh start,” he says as he kisses me. He stands up and goes to wash his hands. “You want to grab some breakfast and then go see my uncle?”
“Sure.”
He goes over to his suitcase and pulls something out. “Can’t forget this,” he says, holding up his MVP trophy.
“Oh, my God.” I get up and go touch the metal lightly with my finger. “I never saw you pack this. It feels very powerful.”
