“Hey big bro!” Harper chirps once she catches her breath.
“Hey, Bug.”
She beams.
“What are you guys doing?” I ask.
Cricket sighs dramatically. “Well, Harper is supposed to be helping me decide on the menu for our client’s upcoming anniversary event,” she says, “but I can already tell she’s going to be absolutely useless.”
Harper gasps. “Hey! I amveryhelpful, thank you very much.”
Cricket ignores her. “What decadent creation are you whipping up for yourself tonight, Mr. Gourmet? Maybe you’ll give us a good idea.”
“Ooh, yeah,” Harper says, “you know we love your food.”
“Thanks, Harp,” I chuckle. “Tonight is pork tenderloin, but I’m going to play with a chorizo and wild berry stuffing. Maybe some wasabi and goat cheese mashed potatoes.”
“Jesus,” Cricket groans. “Write that down, Harper.”
“On it like a bonnet,” Harper chirps.
Cricket rolls her eyes. “Anyway, we just wanted to say hi and see your face.”
I grin. “It is a good face.”
Both of them groan in perfect synchronization.
I laugh again.
“God, I miss you guys. I’m glad you called. Needed that laugh.”
Their expressions soften and Cricket studies me for a moment. “Okay, we need to go pick up some cake samples before the shop closes,” she says. “Just wanted to make sure you were good.” She tilts her head slightly, studying me. “Are you?”
“Yeah, I’m good,” I wave them off. “Love you guys.”
“We love you too!” they say together.
The call ends just as they start bickering again about curtain colors. The screen goes dark and the condo is quiet again. I stare at my reflection faintly mirrored in the black glass of the phone. Then I lean back into the couch, gaze drifting toward the ceiling.
Am I though?Am I good?
I mean… I don’t have a lot to complain about.
I’m fortunate in more than a lot of ways.
I get to play my favorite sport for a living. Millions of kids grow up dreaming about doing exactly what I do every Sunday. I get paid an absurd amount of money to throw a football.
Materially, I don’t want for anything.
Nice home. Nice car. Enough money in the bank that I could be comfortable for the rest of my life. I’m not a flashy guy. Sure, I dropped some serious coin on my place and my ride, but that’s really it. I’ve earned those luxuries.
But I’m not throwing money around trying to impress people with trips, parties and yachts. I feel hollow enough as it is. All that vapid showboating would just make it worse.
When my schedule allows it, I get to spend time cooking for the cutest group of old people on the planet. The way theirfaces light up when I make something new in the community kitchen… it does something to me.
It makes the world feel normal. Simple. Good. Still, something’s missing.
I run a hand through my hair.
