Page 77 of American Beauty

He gives me a pointed look. “Youdon’trush it. Not unless you want to risk blowing it all over again.”

Reality sinks in. This isn’t only about getting back on the field. It’s about doing it the right way, about giving myself the best shot at a future I thought was out of reach.

“Brutal truth… what are the odds of success?”

“Stay committed, follow my instruction, and I’d say your odds are damn good. At least ninety percent.”

Hope flares in my chest.

It’s going to be hell. But for the first time in almost three years, it feels like there’s a way forward.

“There are conditions about signing on for this that you may find difficult.”

Okay, here we go.

“You must stay in Dallas for the first twelve weeks post-op. No exceptions. The success of your recovery depends on doingproper therapy. I don’t trust that task to anyone other than my team.”

Twelve weeks. Three months away from home. I let that number settle in for a moment.

Being here all alone is daunting, but what other choice do I have?

“It’s a lot to take in. If you need time to process, discuss with your people?—”

“I don’t need time. Let’s get it done as soon as possible.”

A flicker of satisfaction crosses Tate’s face. “All right. I’ll have my assistant put you on the schedule.”

I shift forward, resting my forearms on my knees. “How soon can we do this?”

He turns his attention to his computer and makes several clicks. “Looks like I can get you in next week.”

Next week. I nod, rolling the possibility over in my mind. It’s enough time to get my head straight and tie up loose ends.

He stands, offering his hand. “This won’t be easy. But it’ll be worth it.”

I leave the clinic with a weight heavier than hope. After swinging by the hotel to grab my bag, I head straight to the airport.

The hum of the jet engines fills the cabin, a low, steady vibration threading through my chest. I stare out the window, watching Dallas shrink below me, anticipation flickering to life in my gut.

The road ahead looks different. But as the plane climbs higher, darker thoughts creep in, coiling tight around my heart. No surgery, no miracle fix, can heal the part of me that’s still broken.

Without giving myself time to second-guess it, I press the intercom button. “There’s been a change of plans.”

A crackle, then the pilot’s voice cuts through. “Yes, Mr. Sebring?”

“We’re going to Charleston instead.”

A beat of silence. Then, “Charleston. Copy that. I’ll need a moment to adjust the flight plan.”

Charleston.

Magnolia.

Closure.

That’s the lie I sell myself—that this is about getting answers so I can finally move on.

My therapist once told me closure isn’t about fixing the past; it’s about finding a way to live with it. Maybe that’s true. Maybe I need to see her one last time. Hear it from her own lips.

---