Page 63 of Lessons in Lemonade

In this moment, I feel like I have officially worn out my welcome. Could this day get any worse? First she makes it clear that I’m not what she wants, and now she’s made me feel like she doesn’t want me here at all.

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

Reaching for the remote, I turn off the television and turn to face her more. “No, I don’t. Tell me, Meg, what do you mean?”

She stares at me as if she’s not so sure how much she wants to say. I can see this is hard for her; I mean she’s the queen of deflection. Anything to turn a conversation away from being uncomfortable or confrontational.

“The black cloud is back, the one that hovers around you. It was just starting to go away, and here it is again.” Breaking eye contact, she walks into the kitchen and pulls out leftover chicken, mushroom, and spinach lasagna she made two nights ago. I’m certain she’s not hungry; she’s using the kitchen island as a buffer between us.

I stand so she has to face me and finally get what she’s been thinking off her chest. I cross my arms over mine. “Black cloud?” I ask her.

Her eyes briefly come up to find my face as she pulls two bowls from the dishwasher then goes about scooping some lasagna into them.

“Yes, black cloud,” she says, lowering her head to watch what she’s doing. “The depressed mood, the sulking—it’s been months. It’s time to snap out of it.” She then lifts her eyes once more and again waves her hand at my face then pointedly at my knee.

She thinks my mood is about my knee, and yes, some of it is—that just kind of lingers there constantly—but today . . . hell, the last couple of weeks, it hasn’t been. It makes me sad that she can’t recognize that it’s her. I don’t respond to her—what is there to say?—but she feels the need to continue.

“The Jack I know . . . he’s full of life. He’s enthusiastic, optimistic, and loves adventure. I mean look at your social media feed—it’s like the world is a candy shop for you and you’re all wide-eyed as you experience one great thing after another. How do I help you find that guy again?”

“Help me?” Yes, she’s right—I do love adventure. I’ve always been a happy, carefree, spontaneous, in-the-moment kind of guy, but sometimes I’m this guy, too. My feelings can get hurt just like the next person. It’s okay to slow down, think, process.

“Yes, help you.” She wraps the dish up and puts it back in the refrigerator.

“Last night you told me it was okay for me to just be me. I’m sorry today I’m not who you want me to be.”

My lips pinch together and my arms drop as I look away from her, feeling more defeated than I have in a long time. I guess I can add a third thing to the list: I’m not wanted, she’s tired of me being here, and now I’m getting lectured because she doesn’t like who I currently am—or, apparently, who I’ve been.

“I just don’t get it. Why—why are you still so down? You’re better than that, and this is stupid.”

I go back to watching her while I let her words sink in. She covers both bowls with plastic wrap, puts them in the microwave to warm up, and then turns to face me again, leaning forward with her elbows on the counter.

Heat burns under my skin as anger pushes its way to the surface. She just insulted me, and I don’t like the way it tastes as I swallow it down. “Stupid? You think the end of my dream career is stupid?” My voice dips, and her eyes widen as she hears the change in inflection.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” She stands back up, almost like she’s challenging me, and stares at me.

Well, bring it on, sweetheart. Two can play this game, and I can guarantee I will win.

“Do I? Because think it, speak it, and you just spoke it. If fact, you’ve spoken a lot lately.” I move around the couch and come to stand directly across the island from her.

“Stop trying to turn this around on me. All I’m saying is that you don’t have to be so negative all the freaking time. It’s depressing, and I don’t want to live a life surrounded by this. I also don’t want that for you.”

“I’m sorry if you think me being depressed over the last couple of months is an inconvenience to you. I didn’t realize Little Miss Perfect-Sunshine-All-The-Time lived a do it my way or no way kind of life.”

Her jaw drops at the sharpness in my tone and then she snaps it shut.

Moving away, I lean over the back of the couch, grab the ice pack I was using, and return it to the freezer. Her gaze follows me as I move into the kitchen, and then she turns, which blocks the way to my room. The microwave dings, but neither of us moves to open it.

She’s directly in front of me, and she’s so small, yet she’s making me feel like I am. I don’t like it, and I don’t understand what I did that was so wrong.

“Jack, I understand—” she starts, and all this does is make me angrier, because now she’s patronizing me.

“No, you don’t understand. I get it, I do—you experienced something traumatic along the lines of life or death—but is it not in you at all to realize I did too? Traumatic things happen to people in different ways. Tell me, how long did it take you to get over what happened to you?”

“Losing your life and losing a job are two different things.” She tilts her head to look up at me defiantly, and my eyes narrow as I stare down at her.

“You think football was just a job to me?” The muscles across my shoulders twitch at the insinuation.

“Well, it is just a job, and no one said you had to give up football, just that you have to give up playing. There are plenty of other things you can still be doing with the sport. I guess what I just don’t understand is why you’re still making it so tragic. You got to play, and for a long time, might I add. Be grateful and figure out your next move.”