Page 90 of Just One More Thing

“I was feeling nostalgic.”

“It was sweet.”

He smiles. “Jake Wheeler,” I say slowly. “Are you blushing?”

“Men don’t blush.”

“Okay, mister man.” And then I notice his jersey hanging from a hook near the door. I hadn’t seen it when I came in.

Now I can’t look away.

Jake follows my gaze. Something in his face winces a little before he looks down. “My parents kept it there.” His voice is quiet. “I couldn’t bring myself to remove it.”

It cracks on the last two words, barely, but I hear it.

I turn toward him and reach for his hand. “Jake... I should have been here.”

“It’s okay.”

“No.” I shake my head. “It isn’t. I thought about calling. A million times. I’d pick up my phone and—“ I stop.

“Why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t want to open an old wound at a time you were already hurting.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “The wound never closed,” he says.

The words land like a punch in my gut.

“You’re here now,” he says, turning to look at me. “There’s so much you don’t know, Mo.”

“Tell me.”

And he does.

He tells me how he was celebrating the team’s win in the locker room one minute, his phone still buzzing with congratulations, and then Charlie’s voice was on the other end of the line, and then his whole world stopped.

“They were driving to Tampa,” he says, his voice going careful and quiet in that way people’s voices do when it still hurts. “For my game later that week.”

I take the beer gently from his hand.

“If I hadn’t been playing—“ He can’t get the rest out.

“Jake.”

“They’d still be here.” The words are barely sound.

“I always called them before a game. Warmups ran long that day. I didn’t call, Mo.”

I pull him into my arms, and he comes without resistance.

Hank puts his head in Jake’s lap, nudging his arm.

I don’t say anything. There isn’t a sentence in the world big enough for this or anything I can say that would take away his hurt or the guilt. So I just hold him and let the grief move through.

After a while, the shaking eases out of him. I lean back, wipe his cheek with my thumb, press a kiss there, then slip away for tissues. “Another beer?” I ask gently.

Hank is licking his face. Jake gives me a half smile that looks held together with duct tape and bulldog slobber.