Page 13 of Last Slice of Pie

I shrug my shoulders and watch as his expression gets distant and sad. At that point he had already been gone for four and a half years, and I hadn’t heard from him once, so there was no reason for me to ever let him know I was going to the game, even though I was still so proud of him. Wild horses couldn’t have dragged me away from seeing him play in his first professional game.

His look drudges up feelings in me that I do my best not to remember. Why the thought of this makes him sad, I don’t know, but all of it just reminds me that he didn’t care enough to stay in touch. He and James moved on, and really neither one of them looked back.

Walking away from him, I move to the sink to grab a washcloth and look out the window. Rolling green fields, oak trees, pine trees, orange trees—all of it stares back, and though it might not look like much to him anymore, it does to me. I know I’m just a small-town girl. I mean, I still live in the house I grew up in, but I’m not ashamed of this. He’s worked hard for what he has, and so have I. I’m proud of who I am and what I’ve accomplished, but it does sting to feel left behind.

Oh well. After ten years, it is what it is, and at this point, the only one dwelling on this and hurting me is me. I know I can be overly sensitive and take things personally, but I’d like to think his radio silence isn’t about me at all; it’s about him. Squaring off my shoulders, I decide it’s time to finally let it go.

“Lexi.” His voice is low, rough, and unfortunately, it still imprints on my heart. “Look at me.”

I wipe my hands across the small apron tied around my waist, turn to face him, and lean back against the sink. There’s remorse etched into the fine lines around his face, which are appearing from hours spent in the sun. It’s a face I once knew so well.

“I’m sorry,” he says with the weight of a thousand missed moments.

I want to tell him not to worry about it, want to say he doesn’t owe me any explanations and it’s not a big deal . . . but it is to me, so I say nothing.

That first Thanksgiving after they left, neither he nor James came home, and I was so sad, but I understood. At Christmas, when only James showed up for two nights, I was heartbroken. He didn’t mention Bryan, and I was certain that was on purpose, so I didn’t ask. What would have been the point? Yes, we were all off doing our own thing, but to not even return for the holidays? That was when I knew he was truly never coming back. He’d said it a thousand times; it just never occurred to me that I would be something he wanted to leave too.

“Please forgive me,” he says quietly, and his words pierce me in the chest.

For years I’ve wanted this from him, a confession of sorts, an admission that what he did was awful, him saying he knows what he did to me was wrong, and here it is. I never told anyone, but I did text him congratulations after his first college game, and all he sent back was, Thanks. I sent an email after Thanksgiving letting him know I was sad he couldn’t make it home, but he never responded. As for Christmas, after that, I saw no point. He’d moved on, and that was that. James was the only tie left to him, and my poor, sad, pathetic heart clung to whatever tidbit he tossed my way.

“I’m not mad at you—well, at least not anymore. It just is what it is. I mean, really, so much time has passed at this point . . .” I shake my head. “I don’t even know you . . . not anymore,” I say pointedly.

He studies me, searching for something, and his nostrils flare as he purses his lips and lets out a deep breath. “That’s fair. I guess I don’t really know you either, but I’d like to,” he says, shifting on his seat to sit up a little straighter.

But I’d like to.

A weird buzz starts rumbling around in my chest. It feels a lot like hope, and I wish I could squash it like a bug. What does getting my hopes up do for me? Nothing. He will still leave, and who knows when I’ll hear from him again. He spent the last ten years not wanting to be my friend, and now all of a sudden he does? It’s weird. I’m confused, and I can’t help but stare at him.

Shifting again under my baffled scrutiny, those muscles move under his shirt. My eyes catch on his hands, which are flat and pressed against the marble of the island, and then my gaze trails up and over the rolled cuffs on his forearms, his biceps, his strong shoulders, and the length of his neck to his mouth. He smiles, one of those rare expressions that jump-starts my adrenaline, and I know, right then, I’m in big trouble.

Meyer Lemon Shaker Pie

WE WON OUR game on Sunday against the Browns, but just barely. Their team, which has historically been the worst in our division, almost pulled off a win, and since then I’ve had eyes all over me. Yes, I threw one interception—they do happen, unfortunately—but it was the number of incomplete passes that had my offensive coordinator Chuck ripping me a new one before our Monday morning meeting. Some days are off days, and that’s the only thing I could come up with as to why my passes weren’t connecting. His response was, “We aren’t paying you to have off days.”

Guilt about that comment and about how my performance affects the team slipped in, and I’m having a hard time shaking it. I am the leader of our offensive team. I am responsible for calling the plays in the huddle. I am the one who needs to make it happen. My position means that, above anyone else, I have to have complete mental acuity, and that sharpness I so greatly value . . . it wasn’t there.

“You’re different,” Reid says as he drops his helmet down on the ground and sits on the bench to the right of me. He grabs one of the many water bottles lying around and squirts water into his mouth.

“What do you mean?” I ask, glancing at him, sweat from my hair still dripping down the sides of my face. It’s hot out today, and I swear the turf makes it at least ten degrees warmer. I can’t wait for them to complete the new indoor training facility they’re building.

“I don’t know how to describe it, but I’d swear you seem . . . off. You’re usually more surly this time of year.”

Hearing this alarms me. I wouldn’t call my usual attitude surly, more like laser-focused. The beginning of the season is over, and we’re still tweaking plays based on unexpected limited practice players, injured players, and well, new players. Dedication has to come from the top, and being a leader on this team is important. If they see me as distracted or not giving it my all, I can’t expect them to.

“I have to agree,” Jack says, panting as he comes to stand in front of me. “You’re going through the motions, but something is different. What gives?”

I squeeze my shoulder blades together, cross my throwing arm over my chest, and hold it to feel the stretch of the posterior cuff.

“Look, I know I wasn’t one hundred percent last Sunday. I don’t know why, but it won’t happen again.” I hate having to say this. I hate having to try to justify a poor performance. It’s not who I am, but they need to know I’m here. I’m exactly the same, and I want to erase any doubt anyone on the team may have, because this is going to be our year. I just know it.

“That’s not it. We know Chuck got onto you, your performance at practice this week being a reflection of that, but it wasn’t just you. It was all of us.” Reid slaps me on the shoulder.

That bothers me even more. If I’m having an ‘on game’ where passes are completing, downs are being made, and points are going on the board, everyone is having an ‘on game’. But, if I’m off, there’s a trickle-down effect that’s really hard to overcome. It sets a tone and overlays a vibe across the whole team. We can’t fail, because if we do, it will be my fault.

“No, this one was on me, and I take full responsibility.”

“Dude.” Jack kicks my foot to get my attention. “We still won. Shake it off, and let’s move on to thinking about how we’re going to crush New Orleans this weekend.”