Page 13 of Everywhere You Look

“Luke, what happened?”

He places the envelope on the table in front of us and slides it toward me.

“I was served at work today,” he whispers.

“Oh, babe. That sucks. I’m so sorry. What for?” I ask, picking up the envelope. Unfortunately, getting sued isn’t an uncommon occurrence when you’re apublic figure. I’ve been sued a handful of times myself. Usually it’s some sort of bullshit claim that my lawyers have been able to shut down easily. I’m sure whatever someone is trying to throw at Luke can be squashed, but getting served at work had to have been embarrassing.

I pull out a stack of papers and notice that the issuing court is in Idaho. The petitioners are listed as Joseph and Rebecca Connelly.

Connelly? As in–

“It’s my parents, Dean,” Luke rasps. “They’re suing me for custody of Lemmie, Mellie and Ollie.”

My hand flies up to my face, covering my mouth as I inhale sharply. Luke doesn’t talk about his parents, for good reason. One night early in our friendship, we were having one of those heart-to-heart conversations that go all night long, and he told me a little about them. How his dad is the pastor of a Fundamentalist Christian church in Idaho with very outdated—and, in my opinion—ass-fucking-backwards worldviews. From what he told me, their sect was very exclusive, very secluded, andverystern in their belief that homosexuality is a sin of the highest order.

Ironic that Joseph and Rebecca had two gay children.

Luke and Gigi left home when Gigi turnedeighteen, and as far as I know, there was no love lost between the parents and their kids. I think that’s why my brain can’t process the stack of papers on the table in front of me.

“How did they…why would they…have you…” I try to form a coherent question, but my brain feels like it’s trudging through mud.

“I don’t know. I always knew it would be easy for them to keep tabs on me if they wanted to once I started playing in college. And then when I got to the NFL, obviously. Even pseudo-cult members like football, but Gigi and the girls…we always kept them out of the spotlight,” Luke says, his voice a whisper either for Lemmie and Mellie’s benefit or because he can’t bring himself to speak any louder. I clear my throat.

“They must have seen that Gigi passed. I know the obituary was private, but the accident was reported on. Maybe they have a Google alert set, and they?—”

“That doesn’t mean they can bulldoze their way into my life and take my fucking kids!” Luke roars, slamming his hand down on the table. I jump back at the noise, and Lemmie and Mellie turn, their lips trembling. Ollie, to her credit, keeps munching away happily on her green teether.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Luke whispers to me as he pushes up out of his chair to go to the twins.

“I’m sorry, chickadees. Did I scare you?” He asks, kneeling in front of the girls as they nod.

“Uncle Lukey, you got mad,” Mellie says, and Luke sighs.

“I did. I got mad, and I lost my temper. That was wrong. I should have tried to do a better job of expressing my emotions. Can you forgive me?”

“Will you put fifty dollars in the swear jar since you said ‘fuck’ two times?” Lemmie asks, and neither Luke nor I can hold back our laughter.

“I’ll tell you what, Lem. I’ll put a hundred dollars in the swear jar if you promise to never say that word again.”

Lem and Mel look at each other, each tapping their pointer finger on their chin while doing that twin telepathy thing that I used to think was a myth but have since learned is very much real.

“Deal,” they say in unison, offering their hands for Luke to shake.

“¡Mierda! The swear jars have gotten more expensive since you and Kira were kids,” Camila laughs. I forgot she was still “here” on FaceTime. I pick up my phone and roll my eyes.

“I know, right? Lem and Mel are little hustlers. You’re lucky that I haven’t expanded their Spanishlessons beyond household items, or you’d be out a hundred bucks, too.”

By the time the kids finish saying their goodbyes and Camila has hung up, Luke and I have set the papers and the looming dread aside for the night.

Luke helps me make the empanadas—they’re not nearly as good as Tía Camila’s, but they’re not bad—and we freeze the leftovers.

After dinner, I offer to take over bedtime on my own so Luke can have some time to himself to sit with the news. He agrees, albeit reluctantly. When the kids are bathed and sleeping soundly in their beds, I knock on his bedroom door. He doesn’t answer, and I want to believe it’s because he’s asleep and not ignoring me.

I open the door a crack, and when I peek inside, Luke is on the edge of the mattress with his head in his hands. His iPad sits next to him, the screen lit up bright.

“I know this is probably the stupidest question I could ask you right now, but are you okay?”

Luke doesn’t look up, he just shakes his head.

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