Page 10 of Lucky Laces
“As all three year olds do.”
“Exactly.”
I set the fish in the pan, the butter sizzling as it begins to cook then season the green beans and toss them in too.
Garlic and butter, salt and pepper and lemon.
Nothing earth-shattering.
Ernest can’t handle anything with too much seasoning but that doesn’t mean it won’t be delicious.It’ll just be…Midwest spicy.
Grinning, I flip the fish, stir the green beans, and slice the loaf of freshly baked bread into thick hunks I coat liberally with butter.
By the time I’ve put a few on both of our plates, it’s time to take off the fish and veg, so I load those up too and then carry the food over to Ernest, along with forks, knives, and napkins.
“…we’ll meet in San Diego and take the crew to the zoo and wild animal park,” he’s saying, lifting one of the paper napkins I set on the table and tucking it into the neck of his shirt.
Amused, I bite the inside of my cheek then figure, what the hell, and tuck mine in too.
At least with a makeshift bib, I’ll keep my shirt clean.
We chat as we make our way through our food and then, later, the floats, but eventually, Ernest starts flagging.So even though I’m reluctant to end the night and go back to my sad, empty life with the potential of my annoying cheating ex showing up and knocking on my door to harass me, I still finish up the dishes and say goodnight.
Then I walk home.
Go upstairs.
I fill my bathtub with the hottest water I can stand.
As I soak, I pull up that night’s hockey highlights on my tablet and focus on gleaning every bit of information I can use for the Eagles.
And I do it at such a volume that I can’t hear the doorbell going again and again.
Or the pounding on the door.
Four
Hudson
The crowd groans,and I curse, knowing that I need to get my shit together.
That Ihaveto.
But it’s the same rejoinder that I’ve told myself over the last couple of weeks.
Get it together.
Calm down and focus.
Just keep your head down and push on and it will all come together.
Except, spoiler alert, it’snotcoming together.
And every single fuckup continues to stack on top of the previous one so that I’m clenching my stick tighter and I’m getting more and more tense with each play, each practice, each game.
Until…
I do shit like I just did.
