Page 46 of Split Decision

I add a single line to the notes document I’ve been keeping:The coordination predates Marin’s formal involvement.

I close the laptop and finish my tea.

Tomorrow I’ll tell Bill.

Tonight, it’s enough.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

ANDI

Valentine's Day in Atlanta looks like every other day in Atlanta, except the grocery store has arranged its impulse purchases around a theme. I buy coffee, eggs, and a single red tulip from the bucket by the checkout, because it's February and I am at least going to put something alive on the kitchen table.

I didn't expect to be here.

The evening before Valentine's Eve, when Luke softly and carefully told me—in his usual gentle tone—that Syndi had scheduled him for the Lindsey Blair interview and Mack had arranged something afterward, I sat on the tour bus floor, staring into the middle distance fora moment.

So I said the only thing I could. "Okay." Then I added, "I'm going home to Atlanta then."

He said, "Are you sure you don't want to come to Vegas and be there even if we can't spend time together?"

And I said, "I'd rather be in our house than near you but not with you." Which was honest, but I could hear what it sounded like.

He said, "Okay. If you’re sure. I love you."

I said, "I love you too. Win your interview."

And we both laughed a little, which helped.

The house is strange when I'm in it alone. Not uncomfortable—I've been alone in harder places—but strange in the specific way of a space that's built itself around two people and notices the absence of one. Luke's weight is in this house. His coffee mug is on the drying rack. His training schedule is on the kitchen whiteboard, crossed off by the day in his handwriting. The indentation in his side of the mattress waits for him to take his place there again.

I cook dinner for myself at six and eat it while reading the youth center's quarterly reports, which Mrs. Alvarez sent with a note that said, “You don't have to read these. I just thought you'd want to.” She knows me well.

The reports are clean. Every program is running as designed and expected. Enrollment is up eleven percentfrom this time last year. Marcus is waiting to hear from the admissions offices of two colleges. There's a new girl, fourteen, who showed up three weeks ago without a referral—just walked in and sat down in the after-school room and didn't leave until closing, and has come back every day since.

That's the one that gets me.

The one who finds the door herself.

I sit at the kitchen table reading about her—no identifying details, just Mrs. Alvarez's careful notation of her attendance streak—and I feel the specific grief of stepping back from a place I built with my hands. Not rage. Just weight.

My phone lights up. Travis.

Happy VD from your secret admirer—lol.

I set the phone down and then pick it up again.

Thank you. Eat something that isn't from a venue concession stand.

Too late. Already had nachos. Tell no one.

Your body is a temple, Travis.

It's a highly decorated temple with very good acoustics. Nachos are a tribute.

I put the phone down and find myself smiling at the kitchen table in my empty house on Valentine's Day, which is not where I thought I'd be but is, I realize, still okay. There are worse things than the company of your own life.

I pour a glass of wine and take it to the couch and call Luke at nine, which is six his time, and he should be done for the day.