‘And for the record. Losses happen. I’ve missed some gnarlyshots. Remember that summer I was in that stupid Transformers thing all on my leg?’
This time, I definitely hear a snort. I assume he’s referring to his ACL tear, which was no doubt one of the nastiest Major League Lacrosse injuries I’ve ever seen, and one of the most incredible recoveries.
‘That was probably the biggest loss of my career. But hey, if I came back from that?’ He smiles slyly. ‘Think about what our comeback will look like.’
The pride that fills my chest when the kids each get up to high-five Rod and head out on their way is an unprecedented yet warm feeling. Still falling. His morning hair is great. And boy, do I love his witty one-liners. But it’s the way he gets it, the way he is a natural empath to everyone – from country girls with trust issues to a low-morale kids’ lacrosse team – that hammers it home. It reminds me that this isn’t going to be another run-away-when-done. It makes me picture what staying would look like, and that is both dangerous and a dream come true.
‘She’s a smart kid. I think she’ll crack it herself, sooner rather than later.’
I round the island with the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc that is joining us this evening, and generously top off my glass. The vinyl Rod has put on the turntable – Johnny Cash – hums quietly as I fill up his glass, too. He quirks an eyebrow. ‘I think we’re doing pretty well, to be fair. We’ve made it through the better part of tiny-town summer without anyone finding out.’
‘Except our campers,’ I shoot back. ‘See? Kids.’
‘Fair point.’ We both head back towards the couch we’ve beencamped out on for the past hour. I curl up next to Rod, and he pulls me close so my head can fall against his shoulder. It’s becoming one of my favourite places. Technically, his entire house is. It’s built in a very rustic farm-style, with lofted ceilings and family photos on the wood-panelled walls, floor-to-ceiling windows, a cosy fireplace that we have no need for in the stuffy summer heat. But I like to think it’s him that makes the space feel so special.
‘Speaking of which. I personally felt like I could run through a wall after your Friday Night Lights bit,’ I tell him, holding back a grin.
‘You did?’ The way Rod’s eyes light up is adorable. God only knows what he needs my approval for – he’s a natural – but it is one of the cutest things I’ve ever seen.
‘Oh, yeah. You were very “Eye of the Tiger”.’ I nudge his arm jestingly, look up at him so I can take in his big smile. ‘I can tell where Tali gets that excessive whistle use from. You have a born coach on your hands.’
It’s priceless. Mister Stocky Pro Lacrosse Captain is blushing all across his face. I think of the pressure he faced as a boy and realize that what I am seeing is that boy, finally receiving the praise he’s deserved. It makes my heart both ache and sigh.
‘Yeah.’ He bumps my arm right back.
My eyes travel down to his wrist where, beside the Garmin watch he usually wears, I spot two ponytail holders, one blue, and one black. ‘What are those?’ I ask, holding back a smile as I trace the bands, because I full well know the answer. I just want to hear him talk about it.
‘Oh.’ He’s blushing even harder now. The pink in his cheeks darkens. ‘Just hair elastics. I, uh … I do Tali’s hair for her. Like,ponytails, braids, those little space buns she likes. Never hurts to have extras.’
The look on his face, the attention to detail when it comes to his daughter. It melts my heart right there. In a society so obsessed with what makes a ‘man’, here is one of those very special sorts of fathers, the sort who learns to braid hair so that his daughter can feel like a princess. It pokes at a hole in my heart that I have carried around for years and years, but it also reassures me that good things – kindnesses – do exist in this world. A tiny tear pricks the corner of my eye.
From my own wrist, I pull my favourite hot-pink hair tie, press it into Rod’s hand, and turn around so my back faces him. I stop only to brush that tear from my cheek. I clear my throat. ‘Could you do mine?’
‘Could I … for real?’ Rod’s voice quavers with nerves. Invisible to him, I bite back a little smile. Not because he’s a bag of nerves, but because he has such a cute innocence to him in this moment. It steals all my headspace in one fell swoop.
‘Mm-hmm.’
‘Uh. What kind?’
‘French braid, please.’
‘I just …’ His fingers gently run their way through my hair, which has now grown well past my waist, brushing the top of my forehead. He lets out a quiet sigh. ‘I feel like touching it is a cardinal sin, Jor. It’s unreal.’
Softly, he takes a small section from the front of my hairline and starts the braid. He adds hair so tenderly, working with the sweetest touch I’ve ever felt.
My hair, somewhere between wavy and straight at the moment, has always been an endeavour. Mom taught me howto handle the unruly semi-Mexican frizz I’d been blessed with. And it’s not that I’m not grateful for all the braids she did for me over the years, through rodeo, matches,quinceañeras, dances, and everything in between, but she would make sure that thing stayed for at least twenty-four hours with a hefty combination of gel and tug-of-war. This is incredibly different.
Rod works deftly and yet lovingly, no comb needed, and I can feel the way not a hair is out of place. I want it to go on for ever, but I hear the quiet snap of the elastic, once, twice, three times, and then he lets go.
‘There you are.’ He moves the braid over to the left so it falls over my shoulder, and I can see it well. Every section is perfect. Not severe or tight, but effortless. His fingers linger on the side of my neck for just a beat longer.
It’s not lost on me that this is one of the most intimate moments we’ve shared. Just the slightest touch, few words, and yet everything we want to convey hangs in the air. Rod’s lips just brush the spot where his fingers had been, and my eyes instinctively close. I could do this over and over. I could wake up and ask Rod to braid my hair again and again, every morning.
Every morning.
The echo of thatevery morningstill thuds in time with my pulse when I offer my next words. ‘Are you scared?’
‘Of?’
