Clash

  “You want to know what I think?” Mom asked, her voice and face concerned.

  “Sure,” I said, needing some solid mom advice. In the months that followed my senior year, we’d managed to rebuild a good portion of the relationship we’d lost after John’s death. She even snuck a few napkin notes into the care packages she and dad had sent me at school.

  “From an outsider’s perspective, you and Jude probably aren’t supposed to be together,” she began slowly, watching my face for my reaction. “But at the same time, you two should be together.”

  I shook my head, trying to clear it. I couldn’t keep up. This whole conversation seemed like one giant oxymoron.

  “Okay, mom. That was clear as mud,” I said, narrowing my eyes as the start of a headache emerged. “Are you saying we should or shouldn’t be together?”

  “You should,” she answered immediately.

  Glad that was cleared up and, even though I wanted further clarification on the whole should/suppose mind maze, I couldn’t do that to myself without bringing on a migraine.

  “How can you be so sure of that when I’m not?”

  “Oh, honey,” she said, patting my hand. “It’s because you’re letting the fairy tales you grew up hearing in storybooks and the baseless ideals of love cloud your mind. Love isn’t easy. Especially the really good kind. It’s difficult, and you’ll want to rip your hair out just as many days as you’ll feel the wind at your back.” She paused, smiling to herself. “But it’s worth it. It’s worth fighting for. Don’t let what isn’t real blind you from what is. Life isn’t perfect, we sure as shit aren’t perfect, so why should we expect love to be?”

  “I get that, I do. But come on, mom,” I said, trailing my finger along the lip of my cup. “Love just isn’t enough sometimes.”

  “Baby,” she said, looking at me like I’d just said something very immature, “I’d sign my name in blood that it isn’t.”

  I groaned, sinking into my chair. This little mother/daughter convo was getting me nowhere.

  “I’m so damn confused right now, Mom. I’m so confused I don’t think anything you could say or explain would clear it all up for me.”

  She stayed silent for a minute, her forehead lining along with the corners of her eyes as she worked something over in her mind.

  “Love is what brings you together, Lucy. But it’s the blood, sweat, and tears of hard work that keeps you together,” she began, choosing her words carefully. “Love isn’t only love, sweetheart. It’s hard work, and trust, and tears, with even a few glimpses of devastation. But at the end of each day, if you can still look at the person at your side and can’t imagine anyone else you’d rather have there, the pain and heartache and the ups and downs of love are worth it.”

  And the clouds of confusion started to part.

  “Love is just as much suffering as it is sweetness. If it was perfect, that’s what they’d call it. They wouldn’t call it bittersweet.”

  “Are you saying every relationship experiences the same kinds of highs and lows Jude and I do?” I asked, taking another sip of coffee. “Because I think more people would choose to be alone if that was the case.”

  “Lucy, you’re a passionate, emotional person. Jude isn’t so much different. What do you expect to be the result when you two come together? You two don’t multiply the peaks and the valleys together; you exponentially affect them,” she said, getting up and grabbing the coffee pot from the holder.

  “And there’s no doubt for some people, life would be far easier if they never fell in love. To never have to ache for a man like he was more essential than the air that kept you alive.” She filled my cup, then hers, before settling the pot between us. Gauging my mom’s loveathon lecture here, we’d drain it soon. “Life would be smoother and you’d know more what to expect from day to day if you kept love out of your life,” she paused, looking at the window as the first rays of dawn started shining through. “But you’d be alone.”

  “So you’re saying I should choose Jude over the life of hermit-like solitude?” I asked, lifting my brows at her.

  “I’m saying you should choose Jude if, at the end of the day, when the world is against you, you can say with absolute certainty that you want Jude at your side. Can you say the good times are worth the bad times?”

  My body and mind were becoming more alert as the caffeine pulsed through my veins and my mind started making itself up after weeks of worry and uncertainty.

  It was about time.

  “When did you become Jude’s number one fan?” I asked, smiling over at her. Mom had gone from loathing Jude when we first met, to disliking him through the entirety of my senior year, to tolerating him since we’d been together in college. I hadn’t realized she’d crossed into the land of Jude approval.

  “When he proved again and again that he’s yours,” she answered simply. “I can forgive a man’s past faults, his present shortcomings, and his future failures if every minute of every day he loves me like it’s his religion,” she said, taking a breath. “Jude loves you like that. It just took me a while to see that, so he’s got the mom stamp of approval now.”

  I didn’t reply, my mind was so hard at work. Not so much rethinking things, but realigning expectations and assumptions and even a bit of my worldview. I’d been so focused on the reasons Jude and I shouldn’t be together, I’d been blinded to the reasons we should. And now that I’d “seen the light,” those reasons were worth every bit of hardship that came our way.

  “Working things out over there, sweetheart?” Mom said, startling me. I’d gone so far and long down the paths of my thoughts, everything had faded away.

  I took a slow breath, feeling confidence bleed into my veins, drowning out all the doubt. “All worked out, I think,” I said, feeling the weight vest I’d been wearing for too long lifted. “Thanks, Mom. For the coffee, for listening, and for the ‘come to Jude’ talk.”

  “You’re welcome, Lucy,” she said, arching a brow as she studied me. “But what in the hell are you still doing in that chair?”

  My eyes squinted‌—‌was she advocating for what I guessed she was?

  Waving her hand at the back door, she said, “Go get your man. Go be happy and miserable together.”

  Yeah, she was.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Flying on New Year’s Day had its advantages. Next to no one else was, so I had no problem getting my return ticket changed to the very next flight that left in an hour. When I started blabbering out my whole story to the poor lady behind the ticket counter, she gave me a knowing smile and upgraded me to first class.

  The security checkpoint went a hundred times smoother this time, and a coffee stand was positioned right next to my gate, so by the time they called my flight, I was really buzzing like a live wire.

  First class was everything people talked about it being. The seats were twice as big and at least ten times as comfortable. The flight attendants were eager to meet your every request, as opposed to almost snarling when you asked for a sip of water if you were choking on something back in coach. Choking on one of those nasty stale pretzels they liked to peddle.

  Here, we got little nut and cheese trays, along with our drinks served in crystal glassware. It was high rolling at thirty thousand feet, but even at that, with my every basic and not so basic need met, I couldn’t wait until we touched down. I don’t think my foot stopped tapping once the entire flight.

  I was the first person off the plane when those doors opened, and I was in a full run by the time I hit the terminal. I didn’t slow as eyes started tracking after me. I was getting used to these kinds of moments of mass public scruntinization and embarrassment. And I could consider this a prelude for what was about to come.

  However, the moment was going to miss me if I didn’t haul ass to the airport curb and the taxi driver didn’t haul cab to Syracuse, because kickoff was in less than an hour. I didn’t have any bags to retrieve from the baggage carousel, so I stormed by them and a
lmost slammed into a cab before I could slow myself. Climbing inside, I caught my breath.

  “The Carrier Dome, please,” I said, breathing like I was trying to take off. “And if it wasn’t a matter of love and life, I wouldn’t be begging you right now to break every traffic rule to get there as fast as we can in one piece. Preferably in one piece,” I added.

  The cab driver glanced back at me over his shoulder. His face was a familiar one. “Why are you in such a hurry to get everywhere you go?” he asked, slipping his sunglasses over his eyes. “Haven’t you ever been told to enjoy the journey?”

  “I’ll enjoy the journey once I get there,” I answered, thanking my lucky stars I’d crashed into this cab. This guy had driven me here on my first trip in record time; it was fitting he drove me again now.

  He smirked back at me, pulling away from the curb. “What’s the damn rush?”

  I smirked right back. “I’ve got to apologize to, plead with, and make sweet love to the man I love,” I answered, buckling in. “Now make this yellow hunk of junk move!”

  He rested his head back and laughed. “Lucky for you I like bossy women,” he said, unleashing that yellow hunk of junk loose on the road.

  This time, as the cars and scenery blurred by me, I feared for my life. I guess finally deciding on the life you wanted to live made it more valuable.

  But as we broke to a stop at the curb outside the ticket windows, we weren’t only still in one piece, we’d just broken every cab speed world record. I was tempted to ask the driver if he was an ex-Nascar driver, but I had somewhere to be and only minutes to spare.

  Shoving some money into his hand, I slid out of the door. “You are a god among cabbies, my friend,” I said.

  He chuckled like it was cute of me to acknowledge what he’d already known.

  “Good luck,” he said before I slammed the door shut.

  I knew this would be the last chance for one good deep breath, so I took it, holding it inside, sucking all the courage and kismet I could from it before letting it go. Turning around, I rushed towards the gates where my favorite ticket master waited behind the window.

  “Miss Lucy!” he said, his face lighting up. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it. Cutting it a little close aren’t you, kiddo?” he said, checking the clock over his shoulder.

  “How you feeling today, Lou?” I asked, knowing my plan was going to fall flat on its face without his help.

  “Old, arthritic,” he began, eyeing me, “and spry and ornery as the day I was born.”

  I exhaled my relief. “Good,” I said. “I need a favor.”

  Lou’s face flattened in surprise before, looking from side to side at the other employees around him, he leaned across the counter, his eyes gleaming. “I hope it’s a good one.”

  My hands were sweating. Not clammy, not damp. Sweaty.

  They weren’t the only things. Every part of my body seemed to have grown excessive sweat glands that were dripping liquid like I was going through some purification ritual in a steam hut.

  Not to be excluded, my heart was about to burst out of my chest and my knees were strongly considering checking themselves out of the game. If my mind wasn’t so made up, so firm in its endeavor, my body would give out beneath me.

  “You won’t have long, Miss Lucy,” Lou whispered over to me, handing me a cordless microphone.

  “I won’t need long,” I answered, my foot tapping making its reappearance when I peered into the stands. Where the airports were next to empty on New Year’s Day, the bleachers at college football stadiums were packed to capacity. And I was about to go out in front of all that.

  Shit, was the only response my mind had for me. Hopefully it would be more articulate when I wandered out onto that field and put that mike up to my mouth.

  “Do you know how to work one of these things?” he asked, eyeing the mike in my hands. It was slippery from my sweaty hands, so now, in addition to not tripping, not passing out, and not saying anything stupid, I had to add “don’t let the mic slide out my hands” to the punch card.

  “Slide to on,” I recited, my voice shaking too. “Hold to mouth. Try not to sound like a blubbering idiot.”

  Lou smiled that warm one of his that settled deep into the lines of his face.

  “I happen to be partial to blubbering idiots,” he said, resting his hand on my shoulder. “My wife was one, and I swear, that’s what won me over. She had to say everything that was on her mind without putting it through a filter.” Those brown eyes of his took on a faint sheen. “Five years later, after she passed, that’s what I lie in bed missing the most.”

  Wrapping my arms around him, I gave Lou a shaky, sweaty hug which he seemed to melt into. When I pulled away, he wiped at his eyes.

  “Mr. Jude’s a very lucky man,” he said, backing away.

  I smiled after him. “I didn’t exactly draw the short stick.”

  “No, hun, you sure didn’t,” he said, nodding his head towards the field. “Go get him.”

  “Okay,” I said, feeling like I was about to vomit.

  “When you’re ready, just give your head a nod and I’ll make sure that mic streams all the way to the parking lot.”

  I flashed him a thumbs up because my nerves were clenching at my throat.

  Peering into the stands, another wave of nausea rolled over me. The teams hadn’t taken the field yet, but were about to. Lou had assured me whether Jude was in the locker room, or in the tunnel, or on the field, there would be no way in hell he couldn’t hear my voice coming through the speakers.

  Along with fifty thousand others.

  Vulnerability was hard enough without a crap load of impartial strangers witnessing it. But this was what I had to do. Jude had put himself out there so many times before, not caring what others thought about him and the way he felt about me; it was my turn. I was the one who had much to atone for.

  And atonement was one short walk to the fifty yard line.

  Closing my eyes, I visualized Jude’s face. His many faces. The one that burst into laughter when I tried to be tough, the one that had smoothed into a smile when I’d told him I loved him, the one that had broken when I’d walked away too many damn times. And finally, the one of acceptance I hoped I’d find waiting for me when I said what needed to be said.

  With renewed resolve, I opened my eyes and took my first step onto the field. I held my breath, hoping no one would tackle me or Taser me when they noticed I didn’t have a badge swinging from my neck, but no one seemed to pay much attention to the girl wandering to the fifty with a mic in her hand.

  My hands were shaking by the twenty, and the rest of me by the thirty, but as I took my final steps to the fifty, everything calmed. I’d jumped‌—‌that was the hard part‌—‌now all I had to do was enjoy the free fall.

  Holding the mic up, I scanned the crowd. People were starting to shift their attention my way. I pretended they were checking out the water boys on the sidelines. Glancing towards the dark tunnel, I gave a nod of my head.

  The mic buzzed to life. I flinched in surprise. It was the first time I’d held one of these things and hadn’t anticipated that. Dancing didn’t require microphones.

  “Hello?” I said, cementing my spot for the idiot of the year award. Was I expecting someone to greet me back? My voice blazed around the stadium.

  Now I’d gotten every one’s attention. Including the tall, broad guys with black tees that read “SECURITY” across their backs.

  Lou was right. I’d have to be fast.

  “My name’s Lucy,” I began, my voice breaking. I cleared it.

  Just pretend you’re talking to no one else but Jude.

  “And once upon a time I fell in love with this guy.” The stadium went silent as everyone took their seats to the Lucy Larson Gut Spilling Show. “He wasn’t exactly a fairy tale prince. But I’m no fairy tale princess.” I paused, reminding myself to breathe. This would all be for nothing if I passed out from oxygen deprivation. “He didn’t ride in on
a white horse or say all the right things at just the right time. But he was my prince. He would have been the kind I wrote about if I’d written all those fairy tales.”

  I noticed a couple of security guards reach for their walkie talkies, mumbling something into them with stern faces. Hurry, Lucy.

  “That man made me feel things I never imagined could be felt. He made me want things I wasn’t sure I could have. He made me need things I didn’t know existed.”

  My voice was getting stronger as the words started spilling from me. Everything I’d needed to say for so long was finally having its day.

  “He made me happy. He made me crazy. He made me thank the heavens for the day I’d met him. He made me curse the same heavens for the day I’d met him.” I smiled, a slew of memories flashing through my mind.

  “I screwed up. He screwed up. I was sure I couldn’t live without him. I was just as sure he’d be the death of me. I was confused.” Straddling the fifty, I completed one revolution, waiting for number seventeen to be running across the field at me. No smiling faces were coming for me yet.

  I had more to make up for. I only hoped it would be enough.

  “We rode this roller coaster. Up, down, and around and around, and just as soon as I was sure it was coming to a stop and we could get off of it once and for all, we repeated the same ride all over again. I didn’t think I wanted to be a passenger on that ride anymore, so I got off, leaving him to ride it alone.”

  A couple of guards nodded into their walkies before pocketing them and coming onto the field for me. I did another survey of the field.

  Where was he?

  “Then we shared one amazing night in a hospital room and I knew everything would be all right. And then doubt crept back into my mind and I knew nothing would be all right. So I left him. I hurt him.” A single phantom tear I hadn’t known was there skied down my cheek.

  Ignoring the guards making their way towards me, I looked into the stands. Beyond what I’d expected, more faces were formed into sympathy than judgment.

  It turns out, I wasn’t the only one who screwed love up.