Page 97 of Perfect Playbook

Mom used to say the ocean is old but it will still drown you with vigor. So even though my makeup has settled a little into my fine lines and crow’s feet, I rise to my full height and own it.

Just then, footsteps approach, soft thuds on the woodfloor. Logan appears in the room and heads for me. He kisses me like he never plans to come up for air. But he eventually does with a little white makeup on his lips.

I wipe it off for him. “That’s the last kiss for a while. I saved my lips for last but I won’t have myself walking around looking like a drunk clown tonight. No smears.”

He scoops me in. “How about you don’t do your lips tonight?” He kisses me again.

I press him off playfully and turn back to the mirror to pat on some white cream. “Not a chance.” I glance at him, and our eyes connect in the mirror. “Okay, I’ll wipe it off after family photos.”

He pulls me against him from behind and sniffs my hair. “You always smell so damn sweet…” His gaze traps mine in our reflections. “You’re stunning. Absolutely breathtaking.”

I dip my eyes bashfully. “Thank you.”

I check the time on my cell and finish my makeup quickly. “We have to get going soon. Are you sure you want to come tonight? You’re not too tired?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Sorry you didn’t have time to make anofrendafor your dad.” I’ve been thinking of it all week. Should I have made one for him? They’re such personal expressions, it didn’t feel right.

He takes my hand. “Follow me.”

He walks us into the enormous closet where there is a beautiful wooden seat along one wall, which I never quite noticed is actually a trunk.

He opens it. “I still have it.”

“What?”

“I still have theofrendaI made with you in college.”

He lifts the shoebox out of the trunk, and my heartfloods with memories. We painted that box black on the floor of my dorm room with my poster paints.

He closes the trunk and sits on it. Staring at the object transports me back in time. Before the fancy clothes in backlit wardrobes were hanging around us. Before he went to the pros. Before I became a mom.

A shiver skates up my spine thinking of how our lives are full of sliding doors. Only a week after that night, Logan was out of mine for what I thought would be forever. Now, here we are.

He runs his fingers along the top and opens it, peering in. The breath of the room slows and stills, making way for the whisper of his father’s soul, still to be seen, heard, and felt inside this very box.

Logan pulls out a bag of Doritos. “These might be a little gross now.”

“We can replace them.” I laugh. “That flavor is Antonio’s favorite, too.”

“Yeah?”

I nod.

He fingers through the rest of the contents. A horseshoe. A small black comb, because even though his dad wore a cowboy hat all the time, he never let his hair be mussed underneath. Marigolds, completely dried up, and two candy sugar skulls in plastic wrap, shedding a white dust from their age. A guitar pick. A photo of Logan and his dad.

I pick the photo up gingerly. “You look so young.”

“So does he.”

“He was.”

“Yeah. Your mom, too.”

“Mmm.”

Something similar to sadness but more like mutualknowing passes between us. It’s been a long time since our loved ones were young and then all of a sudden weren’t. We’ll always want them back, yet it’s an impossible wish.

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