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He’s here. Just minutes away at work.
Mowgli nudged his head into her lap, looking up at her with big, rounded eyes. He nudged again, and Ali dropped her hand to scratch his ear. “Thanks, Mo,” she told the dog with a sigh, scratching harder.
Ali sighed, her eyes drifting to the photo album she had placed on the coffee table. When Mowgli pulled away to lie flush against the couch, she stepped over him to grab it. She had been too emotional to look through it earlier, overwhelmed with gratitude and guilt—guilt that she didn’t deserve someone as thoughtful and loving as Cornell, guilt that she had put them in this situation in the first place.
Thumbing through the pages, Ali shook her head, wondering how it was possible to remember every moment each photo was taken, but she could. Good memories, she thought as tears stung her eyes. Why do good memories have to hurt so much though? Why can’t I smile about the good memories? Ali pouted but continued to go through the pages. There was Alex Whitman. Craig Briggs. Jamal Crane. Each one brought more tears, but it wasn’t until Ali got to the end of the album, to the inside of the back cover, that they began to pour heavily.
On the last page was a picture of Cornell, in his coaching polo, holding his thumbs up, a photo she had taken before he left for his first game as offensive coordinator. And beneath it, a message forever embedded into the thick backing by ballpoint pen.
You got me here too.
Ali wanted to laugh at the goofiness of his smile, his pose, how very un-Cornell he looked with his polo buttoned up, she wanted to smile, remembering the teasing, the laughter. But she couldn’t. Because sitting on the couch in their quiet home when she should be standing with the screaming crowd in the bleachers, cheering the team—cheering Cornell—Ali realized that good memories are never as good when framed captive in the harsh reality of the present.
And even though Cornell had made the ask, even though Ali agreed, she was letting Graham take what should be a happy, exciting present so that tomorrow it turned into another bad, regretful memory.
He’s taken enough already, she said, closing the album and getting up, grabbing her coat and keys. I’m not giving him one more good fucking moment.
* * *
There were only three minutes left of the fourth quarter when Ali jogged into the stadium. Hopperville was down by one score. Ali bit her cheek as she made her way to the bleachers, not finding a seat, and instead stood against the railing of the stairs.
She was high enough that she could see Cornell on the sidelines talking with Julian before he jogged onto the field and into the huddle. The tension in his body was obvious to her with the way his hands pressed tightly against his hips. It was third down, with Hopperville just needing six yards to continue the series.
Ali bit her cheek when Julian was flushed out of the pocket quickly, scrambling toward the sidelines for an opening before he got sacked by a Ridgewood linebacker before he fully released the ball. At their own 40 yard line, they were still too far for a field goal.
Ali’s eyes drifted to the sidelines, watching Cornell’s hands reach up to grip his head in frustration as the special teams group took the field to punt the ball back to Ridgewood. She knew in her gut it was a done game, but relief and pride flowed through her when she saw Cornell shake it off and gather Julian and his receivers, optimistic Hopperville’s defense would step up and get the ball back.
But they didn’t. Because as fast as Hopperville’s defense was—as fast as Dwayne charged—Graham’s release was faster, and the ball made it easily into the hands of an unmanned receiver who sprinted down the sidelines into the end zone.
Ali should have joined the rest of the fans, who dropped their heads with a heavy sigh and began to somberly make their way down the bleachers. But instead, she stood still, holding the railing tightly, her eyes up and focused, lasered in on Graham.
High-fiving.
Dancing.
Celebrating.
Shit talking.
Cornell joined the other coaches, trying to pull Hopperville players back by the necks of their navy-blue jerseys as the two teams collided, a scuffle brewing. But Ali couldn’t focus on who was on the field, who was pushing whom. Her eyes only locked onto a mane of sandy blonde hair, taking in how his grin was so big she could see it from the stands. He got to keep smiling, laughing, playing… like nothing ever happened, like Ali wasn’t still standing in the bleachers as everyone rushed down to see the commotion, frozen thinking about everything he did that stripped her ability to be herself.
“What a loss,” Beth’s voice rang out. “I didn’t see you earlier. What on earth is going on down there?”
Ali continued to stare, her teeth gnashing angrily. He gets to keep going so easily. She could hear Beth’s voice echoing around her, but Ali couldn’t listen. There was nothing to focus on but Graham’s sneering face in the middle of the crowd, the way she imagined his voice sounded—arrogant, loud, entirely unapologetic. The exact way it sounded up against Ali’s ear as she squirmed and fought, begged and pleaded beneath him. It was all she could think about until her arm burned from the grip of a hand.
“Ali?” The concern and confusion were palpable in Beth’s voice when Ali yelped. “Are you okay? You look a little green.”
Ali’s eyes trailed down to the field, where the teams began to finally head to their respective locker rooms. She could no longer see Graham.
“Do you want me to get Cornell?” Beth asked.
Cornell.
His name brought her back to the moment, making Ali realize she hadn’t been thinking of him while so focused on herself.
