Page 15 of Mile High Coach

“If I told you that every single thing went wrong, would you believe it?”

She sucks in a little breath of air, and I launch into the story—first, telling her about my terrible, stupid decision to sit with him on the plane. Except I dial it back a bit, not giving her the full details. I admit to kissing him, and that’s enough for her to be shocked.

“Lovelace Waters—I can’t believe you were making out with a stranger on a plane.”

“It gets worse.”

When I tell her that the stranger turned out to be the coach for the Baltimore Blue Crabs, she says she can’t believe me.

“But how in the world did you not recognize him?”

“He was way more tan at the airport than in his pictures,” I argue as I move around my new kitchen, pulling the fridge open only to realize I’ve done no grocery shopping since arriving this morning—other than my little trip to the market.

The fridge is stark white and empty, except for a single, abandoned packet of ketchup in the back.

“More tan?” Chrys laughs. “That’s your excuse?”

“He also cut his hair short. It used to hang to his shoulders. Now it’s like, an inch long. He looks like a completely different guy.”

“What’s his name? I’m going to look him up.”

At first, I hesitate, wondering if I should wait to tell my sister his name—but it’s not like she won’t be able to find him, anyway. I already told her he’s the coach.

“Harrison Clark.”

A moment passes, then Chrys sucks in a breath, “Lovie.”

“What?”

“He’s hot!” she says, then a moment later, “But…he’s so much older than you!”

“You don’t know how old he is.”

“His Wikipedia page says forty-eight. Even if that’s a little off, that’s more than ten years on you, Lov.”

“Okay, it’s like…a silver fox thing.” I laugh, pinching the phone against my shoulder as I pour myself a glass of wine. I’ll need to do some serious meal planning soon—I can’t afford a pre-made salad and a nice wine each night. But for now—I’ll write it down as a coping expense.

“Ha,” she puffs out a breath. “Right. Silver fox.”

“Mom and dad had basically the same age gap between them,” I argue, holding up a hand even though Chrys can’t see me do it.

“Sure,” she says, drawing out the word. “But mom was the older one.”

There’s a pause in the conversation, and I know it’s because we’re both thinking about Mom. About her yellow rain boots. The crochet flowers she’d leave around the house. Her brief obsession with essential oils that left us all smelling like bergamot for weeks.

The chickens we had to get rid of after she died, each of them with their own unique name, just like Chrys and me. Stevie Chicks, Bernadette, Lady Mary, Nova Scotia.

Every day, I wonder what my mom would make of all this. Chrys and I taking care of Dad. Dad, having to accept that care. Everything in our family dynamic being completely flipped around.

Knowing her, she would take it in stride, then cook up walnut brownies to celebrate our small wins.

Now, wanting to draw both of us out of our collective moment of grief, I clear my throat and ask Chrys, “Yeah, mom was old, but why does that matter?”

“I don’t know, it’s like—a feminist thing or something. An older guy has more power.”

I sit down at the table with my salad and wine, frowning into the lettuce, “Oh, well—it’s not like I want to date him.”

“Oh—you don’t?”

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