Pledging to give away millions didn’t hurt either.
“I didn’t do all of the work, not the important stuff. You did that.” I shift in my seat, turning to the window, knowing I can’t look at him while I say the next part. The gloating I’m sure he’ll do will ruin the moment. “I mean letting me be part of this. I love my job, but a lot of times it’s cleaning up messes I don’t agree with. Spinning a domestic violence case, defending a DUI. But this? This I can be proud of . . . even if you’re a total pain in my ass.”
His laughter fills the car and even though I don’t want to look at him, I can’t resist. Seeing his eyes crinkled in genuine amusement is so rare, I can’t deny myself the opportunity to take it in.
“Glad you added in that last bit. I almost rerouted us to the hospital,” he says. “A compliment from you must mean something is seriously wrong.”
“Ha ha. You’re hilarious.” I roll my eyes but it’s half-assed. It’s nice being like this with him. Trying to hate him all the time is exhausting.
“I know you’re being sarcastic right now, but I think it’s imperative to tell you that Mrs. Rafter thinks I really am funny.” He risks our lives and looks away from the road to stick his tongue out at me. “So there.”
I feel my eyes go wide in my face as I just stare at him, unable to say or do anything. Quinton Howard Junior, arguably the best quarterback in the League, just stuck his tongue out at me. Like a kindergartner . . . a very large kindergartner.
“You did not just do that!” I shove his arm and try to ignore how firm it feels beneath my palm but fail miserably. There was literally no jiggle. I didn’t know that was possible!
“I did.” He doesn’t seem to notice my fascination with his limbs, thank goodness. “It felt like the right thing to do.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want you ignoring your instincts.”
“Exactly.” He taps his brakes, slowing as he takes the exit for my place.
“Question. You don’t really listen to anything I say to you, right?” I ask. “Like, I could word vomit all over your car and you wouldn’t remember any of it by the time you drove away?”
“Right.” He rolls to a stop at the red light before directing all of his attention to me. “You can say whatever you want and it will never leave this car.”
Even though he’s smiling, there’s a seriousness behind his words. Like he understands just how much I need to talk to someone. How vital it is that I don’t go home to an empty house and still have these words bouncing around inside of my head.
I don’t know if it’s because in this moment I feel like he might be the only person who understands me or because I have drunk mouth—yes, that’s the technical term—but everything I’m feeling just falls out of my mouth.
“I kept picturing my dad sitting with Mrs. Rafter tonight and what he would’ve thought about everything. It’s the first time I’ve been able to do that and not get swallowed by grief. It actually made me happy. And I know my dad wouldn’t want me to be sad forever, but not feeling sad is making me feel guilty. Is that crazy? Because I think I’m going insane.”
“I’m not an expert on this, but I think that being happy when you get a memory of him is something you should embrace.” He keeps his eyes on the road. I’m sure after the way I flipped during our conversation at Stanley’s, he’s choosing his words carefully.
“Oh, trust me, therapy has told me that you are correct.” I drop my hand between the seat and the door until I feel the button to recline the seat. I close my eyes as I let the seat all the way down. “But even though I know you’re right, I feel bad that I participated in this huge thing that he would’ve loved without him. And that when I did think of him, it wasn’t because I was sad he wasn’t there, it was because he just would have been so proud.”
“I don’t like calling people crazy,” he says. “And if I know anything, I know that grief and pain never make sense. So you just feel what you feel and do the best that you can with it. And after seeing everything that you’ve done, I think you’re doing pretty fucking good.”
Considering I’m drunk and lying down in his car while talking about my dead dad, this is probably the nicest lie he could’ve ever told me.
“That’s nice of you.” I should stop talking. I know I should stop talking. But I don’t. “What’s so crazy is that I thought because my mom died, I’d be okay. Right? Like, if you have one dead parent, the other one shouldn’t be as bad. That was bad logic. Like, really fucking bad. My mom died when I was a baby. I didn’t know her. And as fucked up as this sounds, I don’t miss her. I mean, how can you miss a person you never knew? I miss the idea of her. I miss the idea of having a mom. But this? My dad? Fucking hell. And I want to talk about him all the time. Have you seen Coco?” I don’t give him a chance to answer and even though I remember that this, the loose lips part of being drunk, is the reason I stopped drinking tequila, I still keep talking. “Don’t see it. Or do. It’s beautiful. Just be prepared. I was not prepared watching that on Netflix one night when I thought a nice Disney movie could distract me. Anyways, I want to talk about
