Page 96 of Fumbling for Perfection

“Honey.” Kendall lets out a sigh.

Great. When she pulls the soft tone and the endearments, I know it’s going to be serious and something I don’t want to hear.

“Is it worth it? Being alone? Pushing him away? Denying your wants? He may not want kids right now, but other than that, he’s perfect for you. Would you rather settle for a guy who wants kids but doesn’t look at you the way Walker does? Would you rather have a guy who has a predictable schedule and will be home for dinner every night, but doesn’t sweep you off your feet with his kindness, his sweet words, and his magic dick?”

When I don’t laugh, she curses under her breath.

“Kids are great. Trust me. I work with them all day long. But I’ve worked with too many who come from dysfunctional or unloving homes. Is it fair to put your children through that? To have a mother and father who aren’t madly in love with each other?”

“You’re implying there isn’t another man out there who will fall madly in love with me.”

“Oh, contraire. You’re amazing and beautiful and smart and kind. I have no doubt hundreds of men will and have already fallen madly in love with you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You’re the kind of girl who loves big and hard. Who gives her whole heart to one person, and no one else can ever take his place. Walker is it for you. You can’t look me in the eye and tell me you’ll be okay pushing him out of your life and moving on with another man.” Kendall gives me a hug and tugs on my ponytail. “Go take a hot bath and have some phone sex with the love of your life. Live one day at a time.”

I watch as she crosses the lot to her car. When she drives off, I get behind the wheel and drive home more confused than ever. Things changed between Walker and me the other day in my office. The wholeGive a Mouse a Cookiething. I, in so many words, told him I wanted to work on things between us.

We almost kissed. I want him so badly, but will our happiness wear off in a few years when I still don’t have children?

He sends me a selfie of him on the plane, and I text back wishing him well at his game. Monday night, I curl up on my couch wearing my favorite sweatpants and Walker’s jersey and watch the entire two-hour pre-game show.

Jackson and Taylor invited me to their place to watch the game, but I have an early morning Pilates class I’m teaching, and I’m already pushing it by staying up late tonight. This weekend wiped me out in the best of ways.

By the end of halftime, the score is tied at fourteen and I’ve demolished my plate of nachos. Walker ran in a touchdown during the first quarter and Humphries had a pick six. The defense on both sides is doing all the work causing turnover after turnover. It’s a sloppy game, and I can read the frustration in Walker’s body language.

My group chat with Kendall and Rowan settled down now that they retired for the night. Both have to get up early as well, but it’s not their man playing so they’re not as invested as I am.

Not that Walker is my man. But I want him to be. Kendall’s words of wisdom have been playing on repeat all weekend. I’m seventy-five percent sure I’m going to tell Walker I want to give us another chance, then I see a mother pushing a baby in a stroller, or a little toddler giggling with their siblings, and I question if I can really give up my dreams of being a mother for a guy.

Ironically, it takes a guy to make those dreams come true. Sort of. If all I wanted was kids and no husband, I could go to a clinic or even an adoption agency. But while I’ve been dreaming of making memories like the ones my mother and I made in the short time we had together before she died, they also include a father. A complete unit.

My parents were happy together, and while I may not have realized it when I was younger, their marriage is what I want to replicate. My father’s grief and depression scare me though. If I don’t allow myself to fall in love as hard as my parents, I’ll never have to grieve like him.

And then I think of Walker. I’ve only known him for a few months, and if anything ever happened to him, I don’t know that I’d handle myself any better than my father.

I pick at the cuff of my sweatpants and focus on the game instead of the questions and doubt running through my head. The time clock runs down to the final two minutes of the game. I cover my yawn with the back of my hand and check the time. It’s a little after eleven, and I’m teaching the five-thirty class. Boston is down by three and they’re almost near field goal range. While I don’t want them to lose, tying it up means overtime, which means even less sleep.

I keep the volume up and go to the bathroom during the next commercial break to wash my face and brush my teeth.

The announcer’s volume picks up and I slow my brushing as I hear him cover the play. “With twenty-three seconds left in the game and fifty-nine yards to go. Cannon and Buckingham are the targeted receivers and North Carolina has them double covered as they have all night. Anderson steps back, looks for an open receiver. He steps out of the pocket, finds Bankes, and tosses him the ball. It’s a short six-yard pass, but he’s open.”

“There’s not enough time on the clock,” the other announcer cuts in. “But—Wow. Did you see that block from Anderson? Bankes cuts to the left, steamrolls over a wall of defense and he’s going all the way!”

I run into the living room and jump up and down in front of the television and watch as Walker zig zags through the defense. He’s five yards from the end zone and leaps over a defender as he reaches the ball across the endzone. His face crushes the pylon, but he hangs on to the ball.

“Touchdown! What a run by Walker Bankes!”

“Yes!” I jump up and down and toothpaste spit spills onto my jersey. The camera cuts to the crowd and zooms in on their astonished faces, and then pans to a row of Boston fans cheering ecstatically.

“Looks like Bankes may have gotten injured on his game-winning touchdown.”

The toothbrush falls from my mouth and I move closer to the television. The camera zooms in on Walker, who is still lying flat on his chest in the endzone. The medical team surrounds him and the cameras back off.

“Walker.” I touch the screen and send a prayer. The announcers are talking but I don’t make out their words, focused on Walker instead.

The team is down on their knees talking to him, and when his feet move, I let out my breath. Slowly, they get him to his knees and take off his helmet. I gasp at the amount of blood covering his eye and dripping down his face.

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