Thirty-Five

SCOTT FOLLOWED MARK out of the courtroom, one arm wrapped around his son. As they passed the threshold, Lindsay pounced.

“No mangy mutt today?”

Dylan stiffened beside him, but Scott let her words flow over him. He’d spent so long living in fear one day she would change her mind and come for Dylan. Now, she had, and he’d won. With that, she’d lost all ability to rattle him.

“So, the rumors were true.” The vicious expression on her face, a malicious parody of a smile, screamed her victory, even in the face of all the defeat of the day.

He kept his voice low, still hoping to protect Dylan from his mother’s vitriol, but done with Lindsay’s garbage, especially after Judge Farmer’s ruling. “I hope you’re proud of yourself.”

She snorted, eyes glancing over Dylan in dismissal. Scott waited for the anger to bubble up within him, but it didn’t come. When had it lost its ability to sting?

Abby’s face floated into his mind, then Dylan’s, with the expression of adoration he had when Abby walked him through the steps of handling Gen. Those were the faces who mattered most to him.

He thought back, trying to recall a time when Lindsay had looked at Dylan the way Abby did, eyes shining with pride and love; when Lindsay had invested into her son the attention Abby lavished on him.

I can’t lose her .

“Dad? Can we go get some lunch? I’m hungry.”

Scott glanced down at his son, squeezed his shoulder. “Sure. What sounds good?”

“Can we go to Burger Barn? Can I get a shake?”

“Shakes at Burger Barn are for special occasions.” Also, Burger Barn would definitely not meet his diet plan, and he didn’t relish trying to explain to the team nutritionist why he’d broken the rules on a non-cheat day.

“Isn’t this a special occasion?”

He stilled himself, a visceral reaction, long habit more than conscious thought. His eyes flew to Lindsay’s face... and then nothing.

Dylan had surprised them both. He’d been deep in his first year in the NFL, a rookie relegated to a third string position despite his high draft number.

He’d shed the ego, the entitlement of being an All-American athlete, a championship-winning college quarterback, working twice as hard as anyone else to earn his spot on the starting line-up. Lindsay had been studying for the bar.

One night in particular would always symbolize everything about that time in his life. He’d been exhausted, run down in body and in mind, and Lindsay had been pacing the kitchen, crying hysterically.

“You have no idea what I’m going through, Scott. There’s this parasite growing inside of me, I’m sick all the time, I’m so tired... I hate this! I never wanted this.”

Scott couldn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. He’d never understand why she wouldn’t make the best of it. Why she wouldn’t accept life didn’t always go the way you planned.

With the benefit of years of hindsight, he could begin to sympathize.

He’d never intended to be cruel, but that’s how Lindsay had taken it.

Perhaps she hated him so much now because he’d failed her then.

He’d been so wrapped up in his own head he hadn’t made the space to understand things from her point of view.

To empathize with her experience, even if he couldn’t share it.

Had he done the same to Abby, now, as he let her freeze him out in the midst of her grief over Liam, over Gen? Would she, too, one day come to hate him? Was he the problem, after all? He’d never asked himself the question before.

His eyes softened as he took in his angry ex-wife, then he turned, wrapped an arm around Dylan, and guided him away. “Okay, you can have a shake.”

Lindsay’s shrill voice followed them down the hall, “Don’t you pity me, Scott Edwards. Don’t you dare. I don’t need your pity...”

Mark shielded his back.

The small shoulder of his son tremored beneath his hand, betraying his tension, walking away from his mother as she screamed after them.

Scott took a deep breath.

They had a chance at a new beginning, right here, right this moment. A second chance. And Scott didn’t waste second chances.

“Will Abby be there, Dad?”

Scott frowned as he helped Dylan layer his numbered jersey into the overnight bag on his bed. “I don’t know.”

“I hope so. I miss her.”

“Me too, Dylan. Me too.”

Scott dropped the bag by the front door. Kelly would be by later in the week to pick up Dylan and drive up to Charlotte, where she would chaperone him to the Bank of America Stadium.

With the venue so close to Charleston, it might as well be home field advantage for the biggest game of the year—only the Panthers would have been better positioned, playing on their own turf, and they’d been knocked out in the wildcard round.

On the other hand, Philadelphia wasn’t all that far away, so their fans would make a good showing, as well.

Scott turned and surveyed the living room.

Abby’s presence permeated it. There, on the couch, they’d cuddled together the first few days of December, before their lives had fallen apart, sipping coffee and staring into the leaping flames of the gas fireplace.

On the floor, Gen’s giant bed still lay, virtually untouched, two shallow dents mute testimony to the time Dylan had spent beside the dog before. ..

He’d had to explain to Dylan, then, what had happened. Why Abby had left with no goodbye. Why she wouldn’t be back. They’d ended things, and he’d owed Dylan an explanation.

But if the last two weeks had taught him anything, he wasn’t ready for their relationship to be over.

He couldn’t control Abby, but he could admit, now, he’d been so wrapped up in his own problems he’d allowed Abby to push him away.

He hadn’t fought to keep her. Ironic, of course, given how hard he’d fought to get her in the first place.

Classic athlete , he thought to himself, chagrined. Play to win, but once you’ve won, where’s the challenge?

But she hadn’t stopped fighting for him. She’d flown to Boston, to cheer for him in the biggest game of his career thus far, even after they’d broken up. Could he do any less to try to prove his love for her?

So, he’d spent the ten-thousand dollars to buy an extra Super Bowl ticket at face value.

He’d pulled the strings to make sure she’d be sitting with Kelly and Dylan.

Then, he’d packed it up in a courier envelope with a long letter, part apology, part promise for the future, part hopeful desire.

She’d made her gesture, and he’d turned away.

Now, it was his turn, and he could only hope. And wait.

Abby’s hands shook as she slit the top flap of the envelope and removed the heavy, thick packet within. What could Scott be sending to her that would require this? Had he lost Dylan? Was this some kind of legal statement?

A coiling fireball of anxiety knotted itself under her sternum.

Gen, sensing her distress, lifted her head from her bed and slunk to Abby’s feet.

As Dr. Singh had warned, she’d gotten much worse for a while, but even if she’d been relegated to the control, the chemo had finally started working. It would be a few more weeks, still, before they’d find out whether they’d been assigned to the treatment group.

Sinking down, Gen laid her head on the floor. Abby wiggled her foot, sock-clad, and rubbed the spot above the corner of her jaw, at the base of her ear, with her big toe.

Inside the large, yellow envelope, emblazoned with the courier labels, a single, thick security envelope lay, white, with Abby’s name scrawled on the front.

The tension in her chest unwound and she ran her thumbnail under the sealed edge.

Two pages, hand-written, with one, smaller envelope tucked into the crease.

She set this aside, then smoothed the letter on the bar counter.

Dear Abby...

Her eyes burned and she had to blink before she could continue reading. No more crying , she reminded herself. Her new therapist disagreed, but her resolution was only one of a long list of items they’d be working through in the foreseeable future.

And it would be work.

But it would be worth it. If Scott gave her another chance, she wanted to be a better person, a healthier person, for him and for Dylan. And if he didn’t... Her breath caught.

“That would be okay, too. And I would still be a better person. I would still want to be a better person.” She said the words aloud, learning to believe them a little more each day. Healing wasn’t linear, and she had to trust the process.

Her eyes dropped to the paper.

Dear Abby,

We won! It feels selfish to begin this letter with that, but I think you’d be happy to know...

Her heart beat faster. They’d won. No other news could compare. The importance of knowing how the hearing had ended eclipsed anything else Scott could say.

... Long story, short, the judge threw out the case. There will be no change in Dylan’s custody agreement, and, without going into a lot of details, I wouldn’t be surprised if she keeps a pretty low profile for a while.

I owe you an apology. A lot of them. I should have told you more about Lindsay sooner. I shouldn’t have let her blindside you like I did. I should have done more to fight for you, no matter what. I shouldn’t have let you go.

I’m worried you’ll think all of this is some kind of high from winning the case.

That now, in hindsight, it’s easy to wish I’d handled things better, but what if I’d lost?

If she had taken Dylan, would I think differently?

And the truth is, I can’t promise I wouldn’t.

But I do know this: the way you look at Dylan, it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen.

And the way he looks at you... He adores you. More importantly, he trusts you.

I love you, Abby. I love the way you love Dylan.

I love the way you love your kids, the way you celebrate their recoveries and the depth of your grief when you lose one.

I love the way your eyes light up when you talk about Gen and your work together, your passion as you talk about the training and the relationship between the two of you.

I love the way you support me. That night, you could have named a million reasons why our relationship wasn’t working.

You could have blamed me, and you wouldn’t have been wrong – I wasn’t being the person you needed me to be.

You could have used Gen as an excuse. But you didn’t.

You said, “I won’t be the reason you lose Dylan. ”

I want you to be a part of my life, of our lives. I want to be there for you for as long as you have left with Gen, whether it’s months or years. I want to hold you when the time comes and remind you you’ll never be alone again.

I’m sorry

Abby finished reading the letter, took a shuddering breath, then slid the last envelope across the counter toward her. She turned it over in her hands, puzzling, then slit the flap.

Sliding the thick cardboard rectangle out, her fingers spasmed as her brain processed the fancy, holographic stamp adorning one corner.

It reflected a rainbow of blues and greens, but her eyes were drawn to the graphic stretching from the barcode at the top all the way to the series of letters and numbers beginning about two-thirds of the way down: the Vince Lombardi trophy, silver and sleek, topping the Roman numerals of this year’s game.