Page 34 of Catching Our Moment
Thursday night football was on in an hour or so. I opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of beer. If I’d been in Charlotte, there’d be wrapped custom-made meals by the chef who came to my house every few days.
I ate whatever he made, but rarely did I ever drink a beer in season.
Now, it was all I wanted, and yes, I knew I wasn’t supposed to have one now, but who was around to tell me not to?
I stared at it, trying to figure out how to open it with my arm in a sling.
Damn. I put down the bottle, cursing at it as I fell into the chair at the counter.
I could make some dinner, and the evening was warm enough to have a beer on the back porch—if I could open the damn thing.
Well, now…that sounded like a plan.
Warming up a piece of lasagna from the dish Maeve sent over, I brought my feast out on the back porch, closing the slider behind me with a bit more power than I meant to. Kelcie’s kitchen light was on, and there were sounds of movement, probably from her making dinner.
As I situated myself at my table and dug into my homemade lasagna—still staring at my beer, willing it to open on its own—I imagined Kelcie pacing back and forth in her kitchen. Thinking of her there, talking and pacing, brought a kind of comfort and familiarity I’d missed. Being so close to her felt more like home than my penthouse with chef-created meals overlooking downtown Charlotte ever could.
I shoveled in another bite of lasagna and glared at the bottle of still-closed beer with the condensation dripping down the sides like tears from not being opened.
If I asked Kelcie, she’d yell at me and confiscate the beer.
It was relaxing to be back in town, with my friends—the people who knew me best. Being around Kelcie, though…it was still not…right. It was nice. It was surface.
While we weren’t strangers, we still weren’t us.
We were nice neighbors; the type you’d shovel the sidewalk for or maybe even give Christmas cookies to. But we weren’t us yet.
For the most part, we’d waved good morning or thrown out an occasional, “How are things going?” She’d asked me if I needed anything as she walked out to her car with Aaron, and I’d replied, “I’m good. Have a good day,” while drinking my morning coffee. So friendly and so…surface. She’d check in on me when she got home and offer me whatever they were having for dinner. We’d talk about what level of activity I could engage in and what lingering symptoms I would still admit to experiencing.
There hadn’t been any inside jokes, no snarky comments about my hairstyle, or texts to check in with each other. We didn’t have that smooth, effortless friendship that felt like an extension of our personality—the foundation of our identity. The kind of friendship that was so deeply ingrained I never remembered not having it.
It wasn’t anything I could complain about. Change happened. People had their own paths to take. This was just weird and, well, unsettling because this surface shit wasn’t us.
I finished the lasagna, and Kelcie’s form disappeared before I found the balls to knock on her door and ask her to open my beer, so I walked my sorry ass, my empty plate, and my pathetic, weepy beer inside.
I wanted us back. I wanted that friendship back, the ease of the ebb and flow that we had. I wanted her to give me shit about my hair, the way I ordered my food (everything on the side), and I wanted to share our inside jokes that no one else could ever understand.
I wanted to be able to go ask her to open my goddamn beer and not feel like I was intruding. I even wanted to argue with her about the fact that one beer wasn’t going to damage my brain more than it already was.
I put the bottle in the fridge, pulled out a can of soda, and promised myself to only buy canned beer until I recovered. I’d become a pro at opening cans one-handed.
I walked back onto the screened porch and settled with a groan on a chair, crossing my ankles comfortably over the ottoman before flipping on the TV Dylan had helped set up. I was ready to be on the other side of football for the evening and trying not to think about it being a permanent arrangement.
About halfway through the first quarter, her back door opened and closed. Aaron was on his porch, watching the game over my shoulder.
“Hey, buddy. What’cha doing?” I sat up and turned around to face him.
“Mom is talking to Dad. She didn’t want me to listen, but it’s hard not to.”
Damn. She’d mentioned his sensitive hearing.
“You want to come over here?” I stood and walked over to my porch door, unlatching it as he scrambled down his steps and into my yard.
Without further words, he settled into the chair next to mine, and we resumed watching the game. He sat on the edge of his seat, studying the plays.
“Do you want a drink or something?”
He shook his head.
