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Your glass of wine isn’t doing it for you tonight. You keep thinking about all the girls who slip through the cracks—the girls who don’t have a counselor to talk to when a hormone-high football player comes calling for favors. The girls who manage to climb the shaky heights of the pedestal—of the cheerleader pyramid—only to fall.
Lyla Garrity will get through it. You’re (almost) sure of it. But’s so unfair, and so familiar, that your eyes water.
What’s the Scarlet Letter about, Tim?
You try to talk to Eric about it, but that gets interrupted by the other reason you’ve been craving a nice chardonnay now and again. Matt Saracen, here on Julie’s invitation. Matt Saracen and Julie in the living room, your deck of cards giving you no answers, Eric being a little bit of a jackass (you scold him, but you can’t blame him).
Now Matt’s gone. Your wine’s gone. Julie’s probably crying, and you should go talk to her, but the drumbeat thumping in your head won’t let you think. It’s different. Different for girls. You can’t encourage Julie’s delicate heart right now. You can’t say, it’s worth it—because this high school crap just isn’t.
“I’m sorry.”
Eric. You forget what he’s sorry for. The state of the world? Far from his fault. He’s one of the good ones.
“Babe, I…”
“I saw the blanket, I overreacted. I am apologizing to you now, and I’ll talk to our daughter…less apologetically.”
“And Matt Saracen?” You hide your smile. “You thinking of apologizing to him?”
The flush is already climbing up his neck, so you let the smile show and say,
“I’m kidding, honey.”
Eric sighs. “Not much in a joking mood tonight, I guess.”
You swallow hard. “Me neither.”
“It’s just—”
“It’s just—” you say, at the same time. He lets you finish. “This whole town has suffered a loss. And Jason has suffered the biggest loss, but I cannot pretend to know completely what his friends are going through. What his girlfriend—people act out in different ways, and she was just…I’m sure she felt so lost, and that Riggins kid was right there—”
“Hold up,” Eric says, palm outward, eyebrows threatening to draw close together. “Now just wait a second, here. That Riggins kid is just as lost as someone who has two parents at home, good grades, and a future.”
You scoff. “Don’t tell me your team is out here ragging on Tim Riggins for sleeping with the head cheerleader. I will not believe that.”
“Well, maybe you should.” Eric speaks quietly, which means he’s on his way to being pissed—the last thing you want. He has his team, sure. But you two are the team.
“OK,” you say, a little quieter yourself. “And why is that?”
He pauses. Chews his lip. Then he says, “How ‘bout we agree this whole town has suffered a loss, all right?”
The deck of cards tells you nothing.
You nod.