Page 62 of Fumbling for Perfection

Jackson said his father will be fine with it all, but I could tell he was holding back. Sebastian Bankes doesn’t strike me as a man who will let the monstrosity that happened this past weekend slide. To him, his pride was damaged. Embarrassed in front of three hundred business associates.

I could count on one hand how many people I knew, and other than Walker, they were standing up front with us. Jackson will still need to marry before his birthday at the end of September, if collecting his inheritance is important to him.

I hope Taylor is able to break free from his toxic work environment. He’s incredibly intelligent, and from what I’ve seen, an amazing lawyer. He doesn’t need to work for a firm who isn’t accepting of others. He should be with the man he loves, not a company that doesn’t treat him right.

The small confines of my apartment are making me claustrophobic.

I pick up my bowl and wipe the spilled milk with a paper towel, then change into leggings and sneakers and go for a walk.

The city air clears my mind to a certain degree. I still have no idea what my future holds. If Walker will ever talk to me again, if I can keep Boston Strong afloat, if Jackson and Taylor will marry. And most importantly, the future of the child that grows in my belly.

I walk for an hour, and when I’m back at my apartment, I make an appointment with my OBGYN. They can’t see me for another week, but that will put me at the eleven-week mark, which is close to when they typically see patients anyway.

Stepping into my shower, I wonder if Walker will want to come with me. Or if he’s moved to Boston full time yet. Preseason training camps start in July, which means he could be back in San Francisco until then.

After I dry off and change into comfortable clothes, I sit on my couch with my laptop and work on marketing and fundraising for the 5K. The fifty thousand dollars by the anonymous donor has made planning for the event and the future for many children much easier.

Jackson adamantly denied donating the money. When I think back to the date of the deposit and what I was doing that day, my cheeks burn. I’d just told Walker about the stress of finding funding and donors, and we had sex on my conference table. We didn’t use protection, and we both were spent not only from the orgasms but from the meaning behind it.

Having unprotected sex meant there was a level of trust and respect between us. Trust and respect that I’ve since lost. At the time, it was a tipping point for our relationship. I realized I was in too deep and needed to pull back, and Walker became more...everything.

He’d texted me regularly from California. Our flirting intensified. The length of our calls increased. I fell so damn hard, and then realized I was leading us down a path of destruction and had to pull back.

I’d ignored his calls and texts to give us the space we needed. And that backfired as well. He’d made it clear through his actions and roundabout words that he cared for me. Now that I’ve learned he's financially able, there’s no doubt he’s the anonymous donor of fifty thousand dollars.

My chest tightens. Walker is so sweet. So kind. He isn’t generous for the recognition or for the accolades. I Google him and read about all the charities he donates to, but more importantly, the time he gives.

All involve children. Parentless children. He may have two living, breathing, wealthy parents, but they’re dead to him. Their fault, not his, I realize now. The time he’s volunteered in his nine years in the NFL is spent with children in foster care or in single family homes where the parent isn’t available emotionally or literally because of financial reasons.

It’s similar to how I’ve given back, only, my charity goes to those who can’t afford the extra training support to move them ahead in athletics. Those from wealthy, supportive families have an unfair advantage.

You could say Walker is one of those. His family sent him to one of the best prep schools on the east coast, which helped him get into a division 1 college and eventually the NFL, but he never had the parent support.

I read more articles about Walker Bankes, and they all say more of the same. A quiet, respected leader in every organization he’s played for. His teammates look up to him, but there’s little coverage of his social life.

No women hanging off his arm. No social media pictures of him partying at bars after a big playoff win. No women at charity events. No mention of a family, but no hedging about them being the assholes they are. Just nothing.

The media attention is positive and focused on his charities. That’s rare to find. Granted, since Walker doesn’t have any social media accounts of his own, it’s hard to pin anything on him other than hearsay.

I find one article that attempted to dig into his family history. All it says is that he’s the son of Sebastian Bankes, a fortune 500 CEO, and brother of Jackson Bankes, CFO of Bankes Inc.. Lydia is praised for her philanthropy. There’s no dirt on his parents or brother, thankfully. There are no interviews with his family, who I assume have declined all offers.

At least they’re not bad mouthing their son.

Walker is the best of them. I mean, Jackson is awesome too. This little baby of mine is so fortunate to have an uncle and a father of their caliber. Not necessarily financially, but of high moral character.

I close my laptop, heat up a bowl of soup, and make a grilled cheese sandwich. I stare at my phone while I eat, contemplating if I should reach out to him again. Even though it’s futile and I’ll ignore the advice I don’t want to take, I message the girls in a group chat and ask their opinions.

KENDALL: Yeah. You should tell him about the appointment. Don’t ask him if he can make it. Just inform.

ROWAN: Agreed, but you should let him know you’d like him to come.

KENDALL: Walker coming is what got her into this mess.

ROWAN: *eye roll*

I snort and text them back.

ME: I love you guys.

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