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He should have just retired.
I hear the murmurs when people think I can’t. I see the headlines.
It’s pushing me further into a place I don’t want to go, and it comes to a head when Grace calls me shortly after I arrive back home.
I’m sipping a glass of straight bourbon. It tastes like shit, but it’s taking the edge off as I answer with a grunt. “Hey.”
“You okay?” she asks. It’s nice to hear her voice. Relaxing. Comforting.
Which is why I hate the words I know I have to say. “No.”
“Talk to me.”
“I played like shit today, and we lost because of it.”
“It’s a team effort.” She’s spouting the same shit people who don’t get it always spout when they’re trying to make a person feel better.
“I can’t do this, Grace.” My voice is strained and barely above a whisper because I can’t seem to make it work.
“I get it. Get some rest, and we’ll talk tomorrow, okay?”
“No, I don’t mean today. I don’t mean the game.” I pause, and I draw in a fortifying breath. “I mean us.”
I’m met with silence.
“I’ll stay married to you for a year so you can get your vineyard, but for me…I think this has to be the end of the road.”
More silence.
I think about filling that silence, but the words weigh heavy. There’s nothing left to say anyway.
“Oh,” she finally says. “Okay. I guess I’ll go then.”
That’s it. There’s no fight. No protest. Nothing except a beep followed by the dead air of an ended call. A closed line. A closed chapter.
I hold my phone to my ear another minute even though the call is over, and the grief seems to slowly roll down over me from my head to my heart down into my stomach, which knots and twists violently.
I slowly lower the phone, and then I let it fall loose in my hand. It drops to the floor with a clatter.
I stare out the window into the darkness of night for a beat, and then I turn around and look at my empty apartment in a town where I still don’t feel at home.
And it’s because she is home.
But her home isn’t me.
Loneliness engulfs me.
“Goddammit!” I yell, and I throw my glass across the room. It bounces off the wall and lands on the tile floor, proceeding to shatter everywhere.
I’m not a violent man, but this need for destruction surges through me.
I walk into my Lego room, grab the Millennium Falcon off the shelf, and stare at it for a few beats.
I toss it to the floor like I’m spiking a football, bricks flying off in every direction, probably getting lost in the carpet or sliding under the chair or maybe even breaking in the process.
I walk out of the room, not feeling any better even after leaving destruction in my wake.
In the morning, I walk into the locker room before team meetings to go over the many mistakes I made. I stop Jensen before he can start up with me.
