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“I’m sorry about that alarm, babe.”
If Eric answers, it’s lost under the edge of the quilt. You feel around in the dark. Your fingers nudge the hard edge of the nightstand, the round dial of the clock. You turn off the clock.
You don’t even open your eyes.
It’s warm where you are. Warm and peaceful—or it would be, if you weren’t remembering at the dreadful mile-a-minute pace that always starts a bad morning off running. You turn your head, cheek pressed into the fall of your hair, lavender shampoo mingling with the smell of sweat and Eric’s aftershave.
You don’t want to wake him if he isn’t already awake. You don’t want to force him back into the world where—
It’s too soon to say, said the doctors, shifting uneasily in front of dozens of anxious eyes. Too soon to say meant some hope was lost already. Something was very wrong, and all you could think, clenching your jaw, breathing hard, was: were words needed, really?
Everyone could see the machines, the steel rods, the stiffly held body, coffined in what wasn’t (yet) a coffin.
Somebody’s son. Mitchell and Joanne’s son.
You gave a lot of hugs. You held a lot of hands. It was a lot of other people’s grief, before it was yours.
But it was—
(Eric’s face, white under hospital lights, where it wasn’t dark with weary shadows. His hair was plastered to his forehead, curling with perspiration. You could see heartbreak hanging from him like a broken arm.)
“Tami.”
“Yeah, babe?”
So he is awake, in the dreadful world where Jason Street isn’t getting up.
“What time is it?”
“Just past six. I forgot to switch the alarm.”
“S’okay.” His voice is still muzzy with sleep. “C’mere.”
You put your hand on his ribs, under his t-shirt. Skin on skin. Nothing to keep you apart. You feel his breathing. You feel him kissing your temple. You feel the tears rising up in your throat.
Somebody’s son. Jason. You’ve known him for years. A good kid. Bright-eyed. Sharp-minded. He was going—he was going anywhere.
“I can see it,” Eric murmurs, telling it like a secret. “I can see him going down.”
“I know, babe.”
“I can’t believe…”
“I know.”
You always knew this day would come. Not for Jason Street, but for when football—a game of violence and risk, hope and cruelty—would fly tragedy home to roost. You and Eric have never pretended otherwise.
You have never pretended.
“I need you to hear me say this,” you say, smoothing his hair back from his forehead with your fingers. “It’s not your fault.”
“I—”
“It’s not your fault,” you repeat. You’re just as stubborn as he is. You’ll mend the heartbreak, the broken bones. “But it is your fight. If this is going to be worth it—if we’re going to get through this—it has to be your fight.”
His arms tighten around you.
The bad morning waits a little longer.