Suite Hearts.The game show I applied for on a whim.
Aiden and I agreed that if I miraculously got selected we’d get married—a stipulation for the show—split the massive cashprize if we won, then break up amicably, as friends. Thankfully, I haven’t been selected, so I won’t have to marry Aiden any time.Ever. But that cash prize, one I would have used to pay off a mountain of debt and as a nest egg for my Honey Hill escape route, is sure looking good right about now.
“I haven’t heard anything, so I think it’s safe to say I didn’t get selected. No biggie.”
Dinah blows out a relieved breath and nods. “I think they start filming in a few weeks. Apparently, Sumer Morrison is already here to host, and there’s rumors the whole fairgrounds outside of town are shut down and barricaded for the crew.” She bounces in her seat a bit, obviously excited for some small-town excitement. “I wonder if anyone from Honey Hill was chosen.”
There are NDAs involved with shows likeSuite Heartsto avoid spoilers, so I doubt any of us would know the contestants for sure until the show airs, but that doesn’t stop Dinah and me from speculating.
Last season thesuitewas a treehouse, nestled outside of Seattle. Most of the contestants—who for the duration of the competition have no access to electronics and must stay within the confines of their suite or be disqualified—were waterlogged from the constant Washington rain and barely speaking to each other by the end. The couple who outlasted the others just acknowledged their very public divorce proceedings.
Nevertheless, I have never missed a season, subjecting Owen to my obsession for what he calls “trash TV.” Though, he’s never missed an episode either, so I know he secretly loves it.
The first few innings pass quickly as we cheer on Owen and the rest of the Badgers. We debate on whether Mr. and Mrs. Cotten would make for compelling or disturbing television if they were selected forSuite Heartsand convince Jack and Gary to make the harrowing journey down to the concession level for more snacks and drinks. I’m blissed out with my favoritepeople in the world and filled with iced cold sweet tea—and more pretzel bites than I’d ever admit to—by the time the sun has started to set and the top of the fifth inning begins.
The Badgers have managed to keep a lead, but Owen seems off tonight. He’s been working with the club’s athletic trainer to loosen up his right shoulder lately, but his pitches are getting stiffer as the night wears on. He’s barely looked to the stands, all his focus on the next pitch.
If I had a direct line to his coach right now—and I absolutely should at this point—I’d beg him to take Owen out. To force him to rest. To put someone else in for this inning. Because as he wipes his brow and takes what I know to be a fortifying breath, the close-up of Owen on the stadium’s big screen screams that my best friend is in some sort of trouble right now, and I think the rest of his family sees it too.
My phone’s ringer blares suddenly from my bag, static noise in the eerily quiet cloud I’m sitting in as every member of the family seems to hold their breath.
Come on, Babe. You’ve got this.One more pitch.
I will Owen to heed my silent pleas, telling myself he’s just nervous about the scouts he mentioned might be here. Or that he reallyreallyhas to use the bathroom—something he vehemently swears has never been an issue, but I just can’t quite believe. I mean, everyone poops, right? Even superstar baseball players.
My phone rings again, distracting me from sending mental signals for only a moment. When I silence it again, Gram’s hand finds mine, and Owen throws what I pray is a strike on a full count. But when the crowd goes wild for the strikeout, I only have eyes for Owen, who’s fallen to the ground clutching his arm. And not even that endless flight of steps I’ll need to race down could keep me from getting to him.
Owen’s been in surgery for more than two hours now. Longer than the surgeon anticipated when he explained Owen’s elbow injury and the Tommy John surgery he’d need to repair it. Generally, Tommy John’s isn’t an emergency procedure, but there was concern after imaging that Owen’s UCL tear is more severe than the surgeons are used to seeing.
So for two, excruciating hours, I’ve been sandwiched between a chatty Lance Breezy and eternally pessimistic Keith Drew, the Badger’s first and third base men, respectively. Both of whom have yet to shower, having raced directly from the game to show their support with the rest of the team huddled in the OR waiting room. I’m the cream in the center of a confusing but, admittedly, entertaining Oreo, as Breezy discusses everything from his father’s career in dentistry to his latest dive into internet dating, all while Drew throws less than helpful statistics he reads from WebMD about the long-term effects of Tommy John’s and the possible complications of the surgery my best friend is undergoing.
“You know,” Drew says, eyes never leaving the phone in his hands, “you’ll need to really watch him for blood clots for a few weeks after surgery. It says here they can come on suddenly and without warning.”
“Then how would she know what to look out for?” Breezy leans over my body, hand casually cradling the back of my chair, looking at the info for himself. He gives me a tiny but friendly nudge like he’s on my side.
TheOwen is going to be okay, and there’s no way he’ll suffer from long-term nerve damage and the possible loss of his throwing armcamp.
We’re making lemonade with lemons here. It’s almost pleasant.
“Blood clots? Seriously?” Titan curses under his breath. The gentle giant whose real name I don’t think anyone knows, plays catcher and has been tearfully pacing the waiting room since Owen was taken back, convinced he’s at fault for O’s injury. He runs his hands through his thick, chin-length hair, and in spite of the seriousness of what’s going on, I can’t help but make a mental note that he’s due for a trim.
“Titan,” Breezy admonishes, “language, dude. Mrs. Jones and Gram are here.”
“Yes, young man,” Gram says, her eyes glued to the newest Lola B. Reynman romance novel, tone as cheeky as ever. “I’ve made it almost eighty years without hearing a swear, and I don’t reckon my sensitive, feminine ears could possibly stand to hear another. Now, please sit down. You’re wearin’ on my nerves.”
He immediately finds the only open seat, next to Gram, as it happens. “Good boy.” She pats him on the knee, closing her book, then offering it to him with slightly shaking hands. “How ‘bout a little distraction? I think you’d enjoy this.”
Owen’s parents smile wordlessly at Titan, as if to say, “Don’t try to fight it, buddy,” while Winnie, who I know just happened to finish that particular pirate romance, snickers nearby. She and Danger were working in the flower shop as a favor to Jack and Dinah tonight but rushed over as soon as they were able to close up the store, making it to the hospital in time to pray with the family before Owen was taken back for surgery.
Danger keeps his distance but mirrors Winnie’s every move, gaze following where hers goes, anticipating what she might need. Gram’s right. They’re absolute fools.
The truth of it makes my chest ache.
Over the course of our friendship, Owen and I have faced quite a few hardships together. The fender bender during senioryear, when I called Owen sobbing and shaking, unsure of who else to call as Mom was on her honeymoon to Aruba with Bill, husband number four. He and his dad showed up before the police did, stepped in to take care of insurance, spoke to the driver of the other vehicle, and prayed with me on the side of Highway 85, much like we prayed with Owen in the hospital hallway tonight.
Then, shortly after, Gramps passed away unexpectedly, and I worried that Owen might never be the same after the loss of his hero. For many dark months, I was by his side, giving Owen space to mourn privately with me while he continued to show up for his family.
He was the only person I ever told the truth behind my mom’s fourth failed marriage. That Bill, not unlike my biological father, was more attached to alcohol than he was the idea of being married. And, though he never touched either of us, the scars of his true nature were carved into my mother thereafter.
