Page 63 of One and Only

For five days, other than when shedidkick my ass in a flag football game, she’d worked almost nonstop. On Olive’s room. Organizing my pantry. Cleaning out the fridge. There were bins in there now. Bins and circular trays that spun around, and I didn’t really understand any of it, but she certainly looked pleased with the results when she finished.

Even if she did sit long enough to turn the TV on, she had her laptop out, construction plans next to her on the couch, or stacks of samples on the coffee table in front of her that she referenced when sketching mysterious little things on her iPad.

And now that Olive’s room was almost complete, she’d spent the entire day staging it for Olive’s return that evening. Josie—thinking that she was giving the newlyweds privacy—insisted on bringing her over later than normal for the Friday night drop-off.

With that impending return, Greer was frantically trying to get all the finishing touches in place. My last glimpse of my brand-new roommate had been a surprising one. She still had pink paint speckles in the ends of her hair and all over her white muscle tank. Her short denim shorts carried more than their fair share of the wall color, and when I’d glibly asked if any of the paint had ended up on the wall, I got a very dirty look in response.

“I was doing a little touch-up after we got the bed in there,” she’d answered primly, “and I dropped the brush and then forgot I had some paint on my hands, okay?”

When I asked how the bed frame and mattress got into the room without my help, she told me that her wallpaper guy helped her move it in after he finished.

I’d narrowed my eyes slightly at the mention of wallpaper, but she held up a hand. “You told me I had free rein once Josie saw my mood board. No backing out now, mister.”

And she was right. There was no backing out now.

With my hand still covering my eyes, I listened helplessly as she issued one more grunt, followed by a victorious whooping sound.

“Oh good, you didn’t throw your back out moving the nightstand by yourself?” I asked.

“I told you I could do it,” she called from the top of the stairs. “Give me thirty minutes, and it’ll be ready for her. Just need to make the bed and stage the nightstand.”

The stack of boxes in the garage could build an entire house, if I felt so moved.

And even though I hated sitting around while she was working so hard, I couldn’t deny the small curl of pleasure I felt at the clear and obvious effort she put into creating a special space for my daughter.

I’d chosen right, I thought for the hundredth time.

She was stubborn.

She crackled with energy, even when she was sitting.

The only time she was still, I learned, was when she was sleeping. I’d caught a glimpse of her once when I walked quietly past the guest room to get something from the upstairs bathroom. She slept curled up on her side, hair piled on top of her head with some sort of pink velvety-looking scrunch thing, and her face smooth and peaceful.

Even though I’d been very busy all week, not allowing much downtime with Greer, it still felt a bit like someone had unleashed a dark-haired tornado inside my house.

There was evidence of her everywhere.

Not destructive or unwelcome, but there was absolutely no chance that I could ignore her presence when Olive wasn’t around as a distraction.

A new blanket draped over the arm of the couch, something soft and fuzzy that I’d never touch outside of a very cold, winter night. A few throw pillows angled into the end seats, muted textures and colors that worked with the furniture I already owned. And a lamp she’d tucked next to the armchair where I liked to read.

From Olive’s room, I heard a muffled,oh fuck, and fought a smile.

“You okay?” I called.

“Yup. You stay right where you are. Just…” She made a strangled sort of noise. “Fighting with the fitted sheet.”

Earlier that day, I sat in a meeting with our offensive coordinator, discussing plans for the future. How we put in the work now for something we can’t predict down the road.

We didn’t know how our games would play out.

We didn’t know what injuries might plague our team or whatever circumstances would shift between now and kickoff of any single game in the season.

But we made choices that helped us be the best version of whatever we wanted to be.

Strangely enough, his pep talk made me think about Greer. Made me think about our unconventional situation.

We’d made choices, had conversations that laid the ground work, and now we had to trust we’d done our best to weather whatever came our way.

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