Page 55 of Everywhere You Look

The article posted today does not paint me in a good light. I don’t know what Samantha has to gain by dragging my name through the mud all these years later, but I can only assume that Luke’s parents have something to do with it. Why else would she lie to a journalist about our history and what actually went down between us when I’d never been anything but open, honest and loving with her?

“It’s not true,” Luke says, but Lori holds up a hand to silence him. I guess she’s only willing to talk to me right now.

“It’s not true,” I echo, and she rolls her eyes. Pulling out her iPad, she faces the screen towards me and begins to scroll through the article, which features photo after photo of me and my college girlfriend together on campus. Eating together, strolling together, laying on a blanket in the quad while I kiss her swollen belly. All memories of a betrayal that I’ve long since tried to forget being broadcast in the national news for all the country to see and criticize.

“I need you to explain this to me like I’m five-years-old then, Dean. Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you had a child and a woman that you abandoned so that you could chase your NFL legacy. Samantha Harris told this interviewer that she had to give your child up for adoption because you refused to offer her support. You can see how this looks fucking terrible for your husband, don’t you?”

My lip trembles, emotions swirling through me and making me feel nauseous. I drop my face into my palms and groan, unable to come up with words to fix what I’ve done—or rather, what I’m being accused of. I’m overwhelmed by the force of it all, and I haven’t been able to stop the nagging thought that has been plaguing me since we rounded up thegirls and left the park an hour ago. That maybe this isn’t a battle worth fighting, and that Luke and the girls would stand a better chance in court without me.

I’m about to suggest as much when Luke’s hand comes down to my thigh, gripping firmly and squeezing three times.

I love you.

I know that it can’t mean the same thing to him as it does to me, that he’s only trying to provide me a semblance of comfort so that I’ll open my mouth and try to fix this, but I take it all the same. I breathe in deep, and on an exhale, I start at the beginning.

“Samantha was my girlfriend, but the baby wasn’t mine.”

I tell Lori the whole story. How Sam and I were together and I thought she was the one. How we planned for her to follow me to the NFL, the breakup, and her affair with my teammate. I tell her how I stayed with Samantha even knowing the baby wasn’t mine, how I supported her financially and emotionally throughout the pregnancy and even how I tried to offer her money and support after she left.

“I wanted her, Lori. I wanted her and I wanted the baby. Samantha is the one who walked away. She is the one who didn’t allow me to be the father I wanted to be. This isn’t fucking fair,” I say throughtears I can’t hold back. Luke rests his head on my shoulder, and I don’t deserve how warm and soothing he feels. It almost makes my skin crawl.

Lori doesn’t say anything for long moments, just stares into my eyes like she’s waiting for me to double back and declare the articles of the content true.

After what feels like an eternity, she sighs, blowing her hair out of her face.

“I believe you, Dean. But we’ve got some serious damage control to do here, and I’m going to need access to every bit of correspondence between you and Samantha that we can get our hands on. I’ll work on pulling the medical records for the paternity test results.”

It’s not an easy feat, but over the next few hours, the three of us manage to get into my old college email inbox and recover a solid amount of evidence refuting Samantha’s claims that I broke up with her when I found out the baby wasn’t mine and refused her any financial compensation, leaving her with no choice but to give the baby up for adoption.

The whole thing makes me feel sick to my stomach, and I can only hope that wherever that child is, they are safe and happy and have no idea that their conception and birth is being used to try to drag my family down.

By the time we’re finished and heading home, I’m exhausted. All I want to do is pick the girls up from my sister’s place and snuggle on the couch with a movie. But the kids have other plans. They were invited to an impromptu karaoke party at the Adler’s house by the ocean. Luke dragged me along, saying we needed a bit of levity after today. As much as I hate to admit it, watching a bunch of five-year-old kids sing Shania Twain and 80’s pop music puts me in a much better mood.

I don’t love to sing anywhere outside of the car, but even in my sour mood, I can’t say no when Luke asks me to join him in a duet. We sing ‘My Girl’ by The Temptations, dedicating the tune to Lemmie, Mellie, and Ollie, who rush the stage to dance with us when we reach the first chorus. Luke looks over the girls heads to me, tears rimming his warm, whiskey eyes, and I melt for him.

Love you, I mouth to him.

Love you too, he mouths back. And while I know it’s not the same as telling him that I’m in love with him, I feel happier than I have all day.

23

THE DEVIL MADE ME DO IT

Luke

I am not a religious man. I was born into a God-fearing family and taught from the time that I was born that I was a sinner, and it was up to me to beg for God’s forgiveness every day. I was taught that love was a wife submitting to her husband, a father disciplining his children with his fists, and passing judgement on those who choose to live differently than what the church called for.

I grew up in my own personal hell, knowing in my heart that I was the kind of person my father would want to see burn. That if I ever dared to be myself, to act on the feelings I had in my soul, I’d have to know that it was the devil that made me do it, because at my core, I was wrong. Dirty. A sinner.

When Gigi and I left Idaho for California and I was exposed to a world outside of my father’s church, everything that I knew to be true in my heart was confirmed. Religion—at least, the sliver of religion that I was born into—was bullshit. How could any God hate a world in which people are free to live as their authentic selves, spread positivity and love who they love? How could that possibly be wrong?

We left the church, and I left God behind and never looked back.

And yet somehow here I stand twenty years later, looking down on my husband as he sleeps on his back in our bed—his blue flannel pajama pants slung low on his hips and his thick, muscular arms thrown over his head as he mumbles in his dreams—and I think I may have found heaven.

I love him.

Fuck it, I am in love with my husband.

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