Season 9, Episode 9
James was on his back, both hands reaching toward the mobile above him, fingers opening and closing around nothing. His eyes found Brice immediately.
He crossed the room and reached into the crib. James came up easy, one hand immediately finding Brice’s collarbone and gripping it like a handle. Brice adjusted him against his shoulder, felt the baby’s breath against his neck, and started walking.
Brice pushed the curtain aside with his free hand. The glass was cool against his palm. Outside, the sky was that particular shade of gray that came before dawn, the kind that made everything look like it had been dipped in something. The backyard stretched out toward the lake, the grass still dark with dew, the dock sitting empty at the water’s edge.
He carried James to the balcony door, turned the handle, and stepped outside.
The air hit him immediately. Carrying the smell of the lake and the first hint of fall. Brice stood there shirtless in his sweatpants and let it move across his skin. James made another sound, quieter this time, and pressed his face against Brice’s chest like he was trying to burrow into the warmth.
They stood like that for a while. Brice looked out at the water. The surface was still, barely a ripple, the far shore just a dark line against the lighter sky. A single bird cut across the surface, its reflection doubling it for a second before it disappeared into the trees.
From inside the house, a cabinet door opened and closed. The soft shuffle of slippers against tile. The click of the coffee maker being turned on.
Brice turned and carried James back inside. The warmth of the house wrapped around them, and the smell of coffee was already starting to fill the kitchen. He walked down the hallway, past the guest room with its cracked door, and found Miss Lafitte at the counter, measuring grounds into the filter with the kind of precision that suggested she’d been doing it the same way for twenty years.
She looked up.
“Good morning,” she said, "How’d you sleep?"
“Morning. It was alright.”
She set the coffee canister down and wiped her hands on her apron. Then she crossed the kitchen and reached for James with both arms. James went to her without protest. His hand released Brice’s collarbone and found the fabric of Miss Lafitte’s robe instead, fingers curling into it the same way they’d curled into Brice’s skin.
“He was already up,” Brice said.
“I know.” She adjusted James against her hip.
Brice nodded. Stood there for a second. Then he turned and walked back down the hallway.
He gently pushed open the bedroom door, just wide enough to slip through, and let it settle back against the frame behind him.
Serena was asleep. On her stomach, one arm tucked beneath the pillow, the other stretched out across the empty side of the bed where Brice had been. Her hair was spread across the pillowcase in a dark fan, and the sheet had slipped down to her waist, exposing the bare skin of her back and the thin strap of her tank top.
Brice sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped beneath his weight, and Serena shifted but didn’t wake. He rested his hand on her leg, just above the knee, his palm flat against the warmth of her skin.
He sat there. Five minutes. Maybe more. The room was still dark except for the thin line of gray light creeping under the curtains, and the house was quiet except for the distant sounds of Miss Lafitte moving through the kitchen and the soft murmur of her voice talking to James about something Brice couldn’t make out.
He leaned down. Pressed his lips against Serena’s forehead. Held them there.
She moved. Slightly. A small shift of her head, a breath that caught and then released. Her fingers twitched against the sheet. But her eyes stayed closed, and her breathing stayed even, and she didn’t wake.
…
Brice settled into the driver’s seat and pulled out of the driveway and turned onto the main road before he reached for his phone.
He found the song. He pressed play.
Rally sons of Notre Dame: Sing her glory and sound her fame, Raise her Gold and Blue And cheer with voices true: Rah, rah, for Notre Dame We will fight in ev-ry game, Strong of heart and true to her name We will ne’er forget her And will cheer her ever Loyal to Notre Dame
Cheer, cheer for old Notre Dame, Wake up the echoes cheering her name, Send a volley cheer on high, Shake down the thunder from the sky. What though the odds be great or small Old Notre Dame will win over all, While her loyal sons and daughters March on to victory.
Brice turned the volume up. Then up again. Until the bass was rattling the rearview mirror and the sound was so loud it stopped being music and became something closer to weather.
The song ended. Started again. Same brass. Same drums. Same relentless cadence.
The facility came into view around the bend. The parking lot was empty except for three staff vehicles clustered near the side entrance. Brice pulled into his usual spot, killed the engine, and sat there for a moment while the fight song played through one last time.
Then he got out.
The lights were already on. Bright and clinical. The training staff was already moving, two of them setting up tables, another organizing supplies on the counter, a fourth checking something on a clipboard. They looked up when he walked in.
“Keep the Shillelagh home,” one of them said.
“Yes, sir.”
Brice set his bag down and pulled his sweatshirt over his head. The cold air hit his bare skin, and he felt the goosebumps rise along his arms before the warmth of the room caught up. He climbed onto the table, lay back, and pulled his earbuds from his pocket.
He placed the earbuds in. Found a different playlist. The massage therapist’s hands found his right shoulder first, working into the muscle with a pressure that made him exhale through his teeth. Then his left. Then the base of his neck, where everything always locked up first.
He closed his eyes.
The hour passed like that. Hands moving across his body, working out the knots and the tension and whatever his body had been holding onto since the Michigan game. The music played. The training room hummed around him.
He didn’t sleep. Didn’t try to. Just let his mind go where it wanted to go, to the field, to the defense, to the two defensive ends he’d been watching on film all week. #95 and #97. Both projected first-round picks. He thought about the secondary, #1, #0, #32, and reminded himself for the hundredth time to identify them before every snap. Know where they are. Know what they’re doing. Don’t let them surprise you.
The hands moved to his lower back. Worked the muscles along his spine. Brice breathed through it.
By the time the hour was up, the room had changed. The quiet clinical hum had been replaced by something more energetic. Brice sat up, pulled the earbuds out, and swung his legs off the table.
The training facility was alive now. Guys were everywhere, all of them moving with that heightened, slightly manic energy that came from too much caffeine and not enough sleep and the knowledge that in a few hours they’d be running out of a tunnel for, a lot of them, the biggest game of their life.
Brice grabbed his bag and made his way to the dining area.
The breakfast spread was already out with eggs, bacon, oatmeal, fruit, the usual. Brice loaded a plate without really looking at what he was taking and found his table. Corey and Jesse were already there, both of them mid-conversation. Shane was across from them, scrolling through his phone with one hand and eating with the other. Abdul sat at the end, his plate mostly untouched, his eyes fixed on something in the middle distance that wasn’t in the room.
Brice sat down between Corey and Jesse, letting their meaningless conversation wash over him. He picked up his fork and started eating without tasting much, his body going through the motions while his mind stayed somewhere else.
“Her name was Brianna or some shit,” Corey continued.
"Nigga, don’t you got a girl?” Jesse said.
“She knows what it is."
"You gonna know what it is when she’s going upside your head, dickhead."
"All I know is I ain’t fucking my girl after we beat them niggas tonight. Ain’t that right, Abdul?"
"Y’all niggas stupid," Abdul shook his head, picking up his fork for the first time in minutes. The plate had sat in front of him for the last few minutes untouched, the eggs congealing, the bacon going cold.
"On my son’s life," Brice interjected, "I know tonight’s your first game against them but if you piss down your leg, I’ll pay the entire o-line room to beat your fucking ass."
"And what you gonna do when I turn around and whoop yours?"
The table erupted.
Corey nearly choked on his water. Jesse slapped the table. Even Shane cracked a smile.
“Motherfucker talking about me when he throwing picks against Indiana State,” Abdul shook his head as he tried to contain his laughter.
“It wasn’t picks,” Brice held his finger up, "It was one pick."
The next few hours moved like something underwater. Slow and pressurized and inevitable.
Position meeting first. Reeves talked about the first fifteen plays, about the checks, about what Notre Dame liked to do on third-and-medium. Brice sat in the front row with his tablet open on his lap, his finger moving across the margins, writing notes he already knew by heart. Shane sat two seats over, his body angled toward the board, his knee bouncing beneath the desk.
Offensive meeting next. Coach Henson stood at the front and went through the game plan play by play, his voice steady and unhurried, the projector clicking through each formation. Brice sat between Corey and Jesse, both of them quiet now. He could feel the energy in the room shifting, the casual morning looseness giving way to something more focused.
Team meeting after that. Then chapel. Brice skipped most weeks. He went this week. Everyone did.
The chapel was small, maybe forty chairs arranged in rows, and every single one was filled. Guys stood along the walls, leaned against the back, sat on the floor in the aisles. The team chaplain stood at the front and talked about pressure and purpose and the idea that they were exactly where they were supposed to be. Brice sat in the third row between Abdul and a freshman offensive lineman whose name he couldn’t remember, and he listened without really listening, his mind already on the field, already running through the first drive, already seeing #95 and #97 coming off the edge.
The chaplain finished. The room stayed quiet for a moment. Then chairs scraped, bodies shifted, and the hour was over.
Pre-game meal.
The table was bigger this time. Brice sat down and Corey and Jesse fell in on either side of him, and then Jo’Ziah dropped into the chair across from him, and two more defensive players sat down at the other end.
Brice looked at Jo’Ziah.
He could see it immediately. That same look that was on Abdul’s face this morning. This wasn’t Toledo.
“You know,” Brice said, picking up his fork, “I wish I played DB, man. You play a sorry ass quarterback like the one USC has, get a couple picks and now your season is already made. Ain’t that nice?"
"Nigga, fuck you," Jo’Ziah laughed, "I know a nigga that just be giving that motherfucker out ain’t talking."
"He just giving it out!" Hudauri jumped in.
The table laughed.
"They don’t talk about the touchdowns though," Brice held his hands up, "Just don’t freeze out there, my boy. This ain’t Kent State or Buffalo or whoever the fuck you were playing out there."
“I’m going to get a book tonight just for you, bitch ass nigga," Jo’Ziah pointed his finger at Brice, "And when I take that shit to the apartments, you better have my money."
"You want to put money on it?"
"You ain’t said nothing but a word, nigga," Jo’Ziah nodded.
"Five hundred?"
"Make it a band, bitch."
"Now he’s the one just giving it out."
The table laughed again. Jo’Ziah shook his head, still smiling, and went back to his food.
…
The buses were already idling in the parking lot when they filed out of the facility. Brice climbed on behind Abdul, found his usual seat three rows back on the left side, and pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up.
For the first few minutes, the bus hummed. Guys talked. Laughed. A few had headphones in, but most didn’t. The energy was still there, still buzzing, still that manic pre-game electricity that made everything feel like it was vibrating at a slightly higher frequency.
Then it faded.
Brice watched it happen. The way conversations tapered off one by one, like candles being blown out. The bus was silent by the time they turned onto the highway. Just the sound of the engine and the road beneath the tires and the occasional rustle of someone adjusting in their seat.
Brice looked out the window. The trees blurred past. The sky was that washed-out gray that meant fall was coming.
The stadium appeared on the horizon. First just the top of the lights, then the upper deck, then the whole thing, massive and concrete and waiting. The bus turned off the highway, followed the service road, and pulled into the loading dock beneath the stadium. The brakes hissed. The doors opened.
The locker room was already set up. Nameplates above each stall. Uniforms laid out on the benches. Towels stacked in neat piles. Brice found his locker. Set his bag down. Pulled out his phone.
The screen lit up. He opened his texts. He typed one to Serena. Deleted the last word. Rewrote it. Sent it.
He typed one to his mom. Shorter. Sent it.
One to his dad. Even shorter. Sent it.
He scrolled down to Mel’s name. Hesitated for a second. Then typed something out. Read it. Deleted it. Typed something else. Read that. Sent it.
He locked the phone. Dropped it into the small compartment at the top of his bag where it would stay until after the game. Then he pulled his sweatshirt off, changed into shorts and a t-shirt, and grabbed his headphones.
The tunnel opened onto the field. The stadium was already half-full, the student section a wall of black and gold. Brice walked out with his headphones hanging off one ear, the other dangling against his chest. The turf was firm beneath his cleats. He crossed the twenty, the thirty, the forty, and stopped near midfield.
Notre Dame was already warming up on the other side of the field.
He found them immediately. #95 and #97. Both of them moving through their individual drills. Brice watched them work through a pass-rush drill. Their first step was as impressive in person as it was on tape.
Brice’s eyes moved to the secondary. He found them quickly and reminded himself.
Identify them before every play. Know where they are. Know what they’re doing. Don’t let them surprise you.
He watched #97 again. The way he exploded out of his stance. The way he used his hands. The way he never took a false step, never wasted a single movement. Brice had watched every snap of his film this week. Knew his tendencies. Knew which way he liked to spin.
Two and a half. Maybe two on some snaps. That was all Brice would have.
He nodded to himself.
Then he turned away from them and started his warm-up.
The routine was the same every week. Short throws first. Ten yards. Fifteen. Then the intermediate stuff: the outs, the digs, the seams. Then the deep ball. He started with Corey, then Jesse, then worked through the rest of the receivers in rotation, his arm loosening with each throw until the ball was coming out clean.
He worked up a sweat. Felt it gathering along his hairline, running down his temple, soaking into the collar of his shirt. He threw one more deep ball to Jesse, watched it drop into his hands forty yards downfield, and turned toward the tunnel.
Back inside, the locker room had transformed. Guys were in full uniform now, pads on, helmets strapped, the room buzzing with that final pre-game energy. Brice found his stool and sat down.
He pulled the t-shirt off. Reached into his bag and found the other one.
The St. Joe’s undershirt was old. The fabric had gone thin from too many washes, the collar stretched out, the school logo faded to something barely recognizable. Brice held it for a second, feeling the weight of it in his hands. Then he pulled it over his head.
It settled against his skin like it had been waiting for him.
Alright, bro. This is it.
He pulled his pads on over the shirt. Strapped them tight.ayo
It’s weird. It’s like I need to be aware of them but also not let them rush me too much. It’s like when Dad would tell us to focus on our footwork but not focus on it, you know?
He pulled his jersey on. Adjusted the sleeves.
We have to start with quick game. Don’t have a choice. We sure as shit can’t run the football. RPO them to death. Slow down the pass rush. I’ll be a RPO merchant. I don’t give a fuck. We just have to win this game. We need to get those safeties off the hashes. Nothing will be open down the field if they stay there. No Justin fucking hurts. I don’t know, maybe Jaheim finally has a good game tonight. I can’t rely on it, though. Might need to throw that son of bitch fifty times. Maybe even sixty. Fuck it. Whatever it takes.
He sat back down. Pulled his cleats on. Laced them tight.
We just need to settle into the game. An early explosive would be nice
He looked up. Jesse was across the room, already in full uniform, bouncing on his toes.
I need to get Jesse involved more. This dink and dunk shit isn’t going to win us a game like this one. Going to need an explosive at some point.
He stood. Stretched his arms overhead. Felt the pads settle into place.
You was a motherfucker in the slot. I could use you out there today. Run one of those slot fades. Ya-ya, beat them off the line, get physical, post their ass, back shoulder. That shit was a fucking cheat code with the timing we had. We should have just spammed that shit in the playoffs.
Brice smiled as he grabbed his helmet. Held it under his arm.
I didn't know you had a little girlfriend, bro. You took her to the bullpen like big bro taught you, didn't you? Nah, you probably didn't. I know you didn't. Good man.
The locker room door opened. One of the coaches stuck his head in.
“Five minutes!”
The room erupted. Guys were on their feet. Voices overlapping. Pads clacking. The sound of hundred-something bodies moving at once, all of them heading toward the same door, the same tunnel, the same field.
Brice stood in the middle of it. He closed his eyes. Drew in one long breath through his nose. Held it. Let it out through his mouth.
The noise of the locker room faded into something distant. The pads, the voices, the clatter, all of it receded until there was nothing but the sound of his own breathing and the faint, steady hum of the stadium above them, sixty-five thousand people waiting.
ND QB Ethan Houck (R-Jr): 22-37, 276 Yds, TD, INT, Sacked 2x ND HB Daniel Bray (R-Jr): 22 Car, 70 Yds, TD, fumble (lost) ND TE Jack Larsen (R-Jr): 8 Rec, 96 Yds, TD PUR QB Brice Colton (Jr): 28-32, 312 Yds, 5 TD, Sacked 4x, 10 Car, 34 Yds (Broke Drew Brees' school record for career passing touchdowns) PUR WR Jesse Watson (R-Sr): 6 Rec, 108 Yds, TD PUR WR Corey Smith (R-Jr): 6 Rec, 53 Yds, 2 TD
Season Stats 195-253, 1977 Yds, 20 TD, 5 INT, 47 Car, 251 Yds, 3 TD, Sacked 13x Remaining Schedule at Rutgers, vs. Northwestern, at Michigan State, vs. Iowa, vs. #14 Nebraska, at #12 Indiana
Watched the game, first play was an RPO, made me die.
Better game than you've played lately but ya know.
This is a perfect example that Brice slander is a psyop put together by Benjamin [redacted]. This is relatively the same game he's had before except for an interception against Michigan that was essentially a punt at the end of the half and didn't cost his team a possession and Notre Dame, twice, lined up in goal line defense in the middle of the field which led to explosive plays down the field.
"Etsy," Serena took a sip from her glass as she nodded her head.
"They’re super cute," Liz ran her hand along the lion shaped high table topper, "I swear, I have like a hundred of these things saved in my cart."
Liz’s eyes moved across the kitchen. The garland strung above the window. The animal print plates stacked on the island. The tiny safari hats placed on each chair around the dining table, a different animal on each one.
"This is so cute," Liz said.
"He’s really into animals right now," she said. "I tried to get him to pick an animal and make it that theme, but he picked like all of that so here we are."
"No, this is great," Liz picked up a safari hat and turned it in her hands. A zebra. "Really great."
Serena let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. She picked up another napkin and folded it into a triangle, then set it on the stack with the others. The kitchen smelled like garlic and rosemary and through the sliding glass door she could see Brice standing at the grill with his back to her, tongs in one hand, talking to his father about something she couldn't make out.
She finished the napkins and carried them to the dining table. Set them at each place. Adjusted the safari hats so they sat straight. Checked the high chair one more time. The giraffe was still there, the bib she'd bought was draped over the back, the little plastic plate with the lion on it was centered on the tray.
James was on the living room floor now, surrounded by a semicircle of adults. Brice's grandmother on his mother's side sat on the couch with her hands folded in her lap, her eyes tracking James as he army-crawled toward a stuffed elephant. His grandfather on his father's side stood near the fireplace, a drink in his hand, nodding at something Tom was saying from the kitchen doorway. Sophie sat cross-legged on the floor a few feet from James, her phone in her hand but her eyes on the baby, reaching out to redirect him every time he veered toward the coffee table.
Serena walked into the living room and crouched down beside James. He was pulling himself up on the elephant now, his legs wobbling beneath him, his face scrunched with the effort of standing. She reached out and steadied him with one hand on his back.
"There you go," she said. "You got it."
James looked at her. His mouth split into a grin that showed his two bottom teeth, and he let go of the elephant with one hand and reached for her face instead. His fingers found her cheek, wet and sticky from whatever he'd been eating, and she laughed and caught his hand before he could grab her hair.
"James, no. We don't pull hair."
He pulled anyway. She gently pried his fingers loose and redirected them to the stuffed elephant, and he went back to chewing on its ear like nothing had happened.
Serena stood and found Sophie still sitting on the floor, phone now face-down beside her, watching. Sophie picked up her phone, glanced at it, set it back down. Serena sat down on the floor beside her.
"So," Serena said, "Brice mentioned you're visiting Rutgers this week."
Sophie's eyes flicked toward her. "Yeah."
"First visit?"
"No, we did Virginia a couple of months ago."
"How was it?"
"It was fine." Sophie picked at a thread on her jeans. "The campus was nice. The tour guide was annoying."
Serena laughed. "They're always annoying. That's, like, a requirement for the job."
That got a small smile.
"Where else are you thinking?" Serena asked.
Sophie hesitated. "I don't know. My friend is thinking of going to Spelman."
"Spelman's dope."
"You ever went?"
"I thought about it. It was on my list. Never got down there though. I don’t know, seems too far."
Sophie looked at her.
Serena leaned back on her hands. "I wanted to be close to home. Not too close because then I'd just end up going home every weekend. But close enough that if I needed to, I could get back. Purdue was like two hours from my parents' house. Far enough that I had to figure things out on my own, close enough that I wasn't stranded."
Sophie was quiet for a moment. "That makes sense."
"Indiana has a lot of schools so had plenty of options. My mom had this whole spreadsheet."
"My mom has a spreadsheet."
"Of course she does." Serena smiled. "What are you looking for? In a school."
Sophie pulled her knees up to her chest. "I’m not sure yet."
"That's the hardest part," Serena said. "Figuring out what you want. What you’re looking for. I’m older than you and still haven’t figured it out so no rush."
Sophie smiled.
"Spelman's a good school," Serena said. "I’m sure living in Atlanta would be awesome. Rutgers too. The city is like right there."
"Yeah, that’d be nice," Sophie nodded.
"Where else are you thinking?" Serena asked.
In the kitchen, Tom pulled a tray of ribs from the oven and set it on the counter.
"What'd you put on these?" Brice asked, setting his tongs down and leaning over the tray.
"New rub I picked up," Tom said.
Brice leaned in. The rub was dark, almost black, with flecks of red and brown. It smelled like campfire and something sweet.
"Smells good."
"Right? I've been using it on everything. Chicken, pork, even put it on some salmon last week."
He picked up a rib and turned it over, studying the bark. "You marinate with it?"
"You don’t have to, but I did for these. Especially if you’re not going to smoke it."
"I’ve been thinking about getting one. I just don’t think I’ll get to use it much before the season’s done."
Tom grabbed a beer from the cooler, cracking it open. "It’s not like you’re going to move the shit yourself anyway. Might as well get a small one, see how you like it."
Brice nodded, and they stood there for a moment, side by side at the counter, Tom pulling the ribs apart with his fingers to check the tenderness. Tom was just about done when there was a knock on the door.
Brice instinctively checked the Ring camera. The screen showed two figures standing on the porch. A man and a woman. The man's shoulders were slightly hunched, his hands shoved into the pockets of a jacket that looked too heavy for September. The woman stood beside him, her arms crossed, a small wrapped gift tucked under one elbow.
Brice's stomach dropped.
He stood there for a second.
"Who is it?"
Brice didn't answer. He walked through the kitchen, past the island, past the dining table with its safari hats and animal print plates, and into the living room. He opened the door.
Mr. Hayes stood there with his jaw set, his eyes finding Brice's and holding them for a beat too long before dropping to somewhere around Brice's collarbone. Mrs. Hayes stood beside him, her arms still crossed, the gift now clutched against her chest with both hands. She looked like she'd lost weight. Her face was thinner than Brice remembered, the skin beneath her eyes carrying that bruised, sleepless quality that he recognized because he'd seen it in his own mirror.
"Hey," Brice said. The word came out flat. He stepped back from the door. "Come in."
They didn't move right away. Mr. Hayes glanced past Brice into the house. Mrs. Hayes's eyes found James on the floor, and Brice saw her breath catch.
Then they stepped inside.
Nobody said anything.
Brice stood there with the door still open behind him, the cool air from outside pushing into the warmth of the house, and for a moment the only sound was James babbling at the stuffed elephant and the distant hiss of the grill.
Then Liz was there.
She moved through the living room with an unhurried grace that made it look like she'd been waiting for them. Her smile was already in place as she reached them.
"Patricia," Liz said, and she opened her arms before Mrs. Hayes could respond. "Oh my God, you came."
Mrs. Hayes's arms unfolded. The gift dropped to her side. Liz pulled her into a hug that lasted longer than she expected.
When she pulled back, she kept both hands on Mrs. Hayes's shoulders. "You look amazing. Have you been doing something different with your hair?"
Mrs. Hayes touched her hair. "No, I—"
"It looks lighter. It's gorgeous." Liz turned to Mr. Hayes and extended her hand. "Robert. Thank you for making the drive. I know it's not short."
Mr. Hayes shook her hand.
"Can I take your jacket?" Liz asked, already reaching for it. Mr. Hayes shrugged it off and handed it to her. She draped it over the back of the nearest chair. "And Patricia, let me get that from you."
She took the gift from Mrs. Hayes's hand and set it on the entryway table. "We've got food just coming off the grill. Brice, honey, can you get them something to drink?"
Brice nodded. He turned toward the kitchen, grateful for the direction, for something to do with his hands.
"I'll take the tea," Mrs. Hayes said. Her voice was quiet. Brice could barely hear it from the kitchen.
He pulled two glasses from the cabinet. He filled one with water, the other with sweet tea from the pitcher Serena had made that morning, and carried them back into the living room.
Liz had already guided the Hayes to the couch. She'd pulled her mother aside with a whispered word and a gentle hand on her elbow, and now the Hayes sat where she'd been sitting, a respectable distance between them, their bodies angled toward each other.
Brice handed Mr. Hayes the water. Handed Mrs. Hayes the tea. She took it with both hands and held it in her lap without drinking.
"Thank you," she said.
Liz stood in front of them, her hands clasped loosely at her waist. "I'm so glad you're here. Really."
Mrs. Hayes's eyes flicked toward the floor where James was still chewing on the elephant's ear. Her lips pressed together.
Sophie looked up from the floor. She glanced at Brice, then at Liz, then reached for James. She scooped him up with both hands and carried him toward the couch.
James was babbling, his hands reaching for Sophie's face, his legs kicking against her hip. Liz took him from Sophie. She adjusted him against her hip, straightened his bib, wiped his chin with her thumb. Then she turned toward the couch.
"Patricia," Liz said.
She held James out.
Mrs. Hayes set the tea on the side table. Her hands came up slowly. Liz placed James into her arms with both hands, one supporting his bottom, the other guiding his back, and then she stepped back.
James settled against Mrs. Hayes's chest. Mrs. Hayes's arms tightened around him. Just slightly. Her chin dropped until it was resting against the top of his head, and she closed her eyes.
…
Rosa's eldest son sat at the head of the table with his father's eyes and his mother's smile. Hector's hand found his son's shoulder as he passed behind him to set down the plate of chicken.
"Mijo, pasas el arroz, por favor."
Gustavo reached for the rice and passed it to his father without looking up from his phone. Hector took it. Set it down. Picked up the serving spoon.
"¿Cuándo vas a venir con la familia?" Rosa said from the kitchen doorway, a dish towel draped over one shoulder. "¿O me vas a seguir visitando solo como si fueras soltero todavía?"
Connie caught most of it. She looked at Gustavo.
He didn't look up from his phone. "Mamá, ya te dije—"
"Ya me dijiste, ya me dijiste." Rosa came to the table with a bowl of beans in both hands. She set it down with a small thud. "Siempre me dices lo mismo. 'El próximo mes, Mamá. El próximo mes.' Y el próximo mes llega y tú llegas solo otra vez."
"Está trabajando," Gustavo said. He set his phone face-down on the table.
"¿Trabajo?" Rosa sat down across from him. "¿En un sábado? ¿En un domingo? ¿Todos los días del año?"
Hector laughed. He was already serving himself, spooning rice onto his plate. "Déjalo, Rosa. Él viene. Eso es lo que importa."
"Él viene," Rosa repeated, picking up her fork. "Sí. Él viene. Y ella se queda en casa mirando la televisión, supongo."
Gustavo looked at his mother. Then he looked at his father. Then he looked at Connie.
"My mother is a very jealous woman," he smiled.
Connie stifled her laugh.
"Por supuesto,” Rosa shrugged as she speared a piece of chicken, "My son never visits and when he does, his beautiful wife never with him. What’s up with that, Connie?"
Connie picked up her water glass and took a sip.
Hector reached across the table and set a piece of chicken on Gustavo’s plate.
"Gracias, Papá."
"De nada, mijo."
"La próxima vez," Gustavo said, turning back to his mother. "Te lo prometo. Vamos a venir todos."
"¿La próxima vez?" Rosa set her fork down. "¿Cuándo es la próxima vez? ¿Navidad? ¿O vas a esperar hasta que tu hijo tenga diez años para que lo conozca?"
"Mamá."
"Estoy bromeando," Rosa said, and she reached across the table and patted his hand. Twice. "Vamos. Come. Come. He preparado tu plato favorito."
…
The sliding door opened with a soft click. Brice stepped out onto the patio and the cool air hit him. The string lights Serena had hung along the railing were on now, throwing warm yellow pools across the concrete. The yard beyond was dark, the lake a black mirror at the bottom of the slope.
They were sitting at the far end of the patio. Mr. Hayes in one of the chairs, his back to the house, his shoulders hunched forward. Mrs. Hayes beside him, her hands folded in her lap, her gaze fixed on something in the middle distance that wasn't there.
Brice stood there for a second. He could hear the party still going inside with the low murmur of conversation, someone laughing, the clink of a glass against a plate. Out here it was quiet. Just the distant hum of the lake and the sound of his own breathing.
He walked toward them.
"Hey," he said.
Mr. Hayes didn't turn around. Mrs. Hayes's eyes moved toward him, then away.
"Thanks for coming," Brice said. He stood a few feet from their chairs, his hands at his sides. "I know it wasn't easy."
Mr. Hayes let out a sound. Not quite a laugh. Something drier than that. He turned his head just enough that Brice could see the side of his face, the set of his jaw, the way his mouth pulled into something that wasn't a smile.
"We almost didn't," Mr. Hayes said.
Brice waited.
"Especially after we heard about that little letter you wrote."
Brice opened his mouth, then closed it.
"Yeah, they told us about it. You thought it was going to be your little secret, huh? You’re not the only they’ve been calling," Mr. Hayes continued. "You can write a hundred more letters. Everyone up at that school you go to can write a hundred more. The school president. All of them. We’re not going to budge."
Mrs. Hayes's hands tightened in her lap. Her knuckles went white.
"You think this makes you look good?" Mr. Hayes's voice rose a notch. "Like you got some sort of big heart? Like you care about people other than yourself? You ain’t nothing but a—"
He stopped himself. He looked away, toward the dark yard.
"You’ve been such a piece of shit your whole life you probably done convinced yourself you ain’t," Mrs. Hayes finally spoke, although she kept her gaze away from him, "All because you throw some fucking ball around. And now you got some new girlfriend in there. Playing house. Decorating. Throwing parties. Like none of it ever happened. Like my daughter was just—"
She stopped. "She never got that. She never got to do any of that. She never got to do any of the things you get to do every single day."
Brice stood there. His hands hung at his sides.
"You wouldn't even be a father to him when she was alive," Mrs. Hayes said. "You wouldn't even show up. You wouldn't even answer your phone. And now you're standing here in your nice house with your nice girlfriend and your nice little party like you've always been here. Like you've always been the one."
Mr. Hayes's head turned. His eyes found Brice's again. "I still think you had something to do with. I know I can’t prove it and I probably never will, but I just know it. It’s something about you."
Mrs. Hayes made a sound. Small at first. Like something breaking inside a closed fist. Then it came out of her, and it wasn't a sound anymore but a cry, and her hands came up to her face and her shoulders folded forward and the whole weight of her body seemed to collapse into itself.
Brice just stood in the yellow light and let the sound of her crying fill the space between them because that was the only thing he had that was worth anything.
After a while, the crying softened. Mrs. Hayes's hands stayed over her face. Mr. Hayes had his hand on her back now, his fingers spread wide, and he was looking at the concrete between his feet.
"You can take him this week," Brice cleared his throat. "Like we talked about. His bag’s ready in his room. There’s a car seat by the door if you need one."
Neither of them looked up.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry about all of it."
…
"Gustavo is a good boy," Rosa nodded as she looked out into the backyard where the flicker of the lighter illuminated the small backyard, "I don’t know why he smokes. Smells bad."
Connie laughed as she watched Rosa move through the kitchen, gathering plates, stacking them by the sink.
Connie picked up the serving bowls from the table. The rice was almost gone. The beans had a thin skin forming across the top where they'd cooled. She carried them to the counter and set them beside the sink as well.
"No, no," Rosa said, waving her hand. "Ponlos en el refrigerador. Mañana los calentamos."
Connie nodded. She found the Tupperware in the cabinet above the stove, the same one Rosa had pulled from earlier, and started spooning the leftovers into the containers. The rice was still warm at the center, cold at the edges. She pressed the lid on and set it in the refrigerator.
Rosa rinsed a plate under the tap. The water ran hot, steam rising in thin curls. She set the plate in the dishwasher and picked up another.
"Me encanta cuando vienen," she said. "Incluso cuando vienen solos. Incluso cuando me quejo. Me encanta."
Connie caught enough. She dried her hands on a towel and leaned against the counter. "You miss them."
"Claro." Rosa shut the water off. She dried her hands on the dish towel draped over her shoulder and turned to face Connie. "Es lo más difícil. Cuando se van. La casa se queda tan vacía. Tan silenciosa."
She said something else, faster, and Connie caught the word pequeños and something about noise and something about how she used to complain about it and now she missed it. Rosa laughed at herself, shaking her head, and Connie laughed too, because she understood the shape of it even if she didn't catch every word.
Rosa set the last plate in the dishwasher and closed it. She stood there for a moment, her hand resting on the handle, looking at the kitchen like she was seeing something else. Then she turned.
"Ven," she said. "Te quiero mostrar algo."
She led Connie down the hallway to the end of the hall where a door Connie hadn't noticed before stood slightly ajar. Rosa pushed it open.
The room was small. A desk against one wall, a bookshelf against another, both of them covered in stacks of paper and old Bibles and what looked like church records. But Rosa went to the bookshelf and reached up to the top shelf, her fingers finding something Connie couldn't see from where she stood.
She pulled down three photo albums. Thick ones, the kind with the padded covers and the plastic sleeves inside. She carried them to the desk and set them down one by one, the sound of them hitting the wood like something settling.
"Siéntate," Rosa said, pulling the chair out.
Connie sat. Rosa stood beside her, close enough that Connie could smell the soap on her hands and the faint trace of whatever she'd cooked with earlier.
Rosa opened the first album.
The photos were old. The kind that had that warm, slightly yellowed quality, the colors softer than they should have been. The first page was a baby. A boy, wrapped in a blanket, his eyes wide and dark and already carrying something that looked like his father's.
"[Gustavo," Rosa said. She touched the plastic over his face with one finger. "Seis meses."
She turned the page. More of Gustavo. On a blanket on the floor. In a bathtub that was too big for him, his mother's hands visible at the edges of the frame. Sitting in a high chair with food smeared across his face and his chin, his mouth open in what looked like a laugh.
"Era tan gordo," Rosa laughed. "Mira. Tan gordo."
Connie smiled. She turned the page herself this time. More babies. A girl now. Darker than Gustavo, with Rosa's eyes. Then another boy. Then another girl. Each one with a name Rosa said and a story she told in a mix of Spanish and broken English that Connie pieced together as she went.
"Este es Miguel," Rosa said, pointing to a boy maybe two years old, standing in front of a Christmas tree. "Tenía miedo de Papá Noel. Lloró toda la noche."
Connie laughed.
Rosa turned the page again. And then she stopped.
The photo was different from the others. It wasn't a baby. It was a house.
Connie looked at it.
The house was small. Smaller than small. It was a box. Four walls and a roof that looked like it was made of tin, the kind of roof that would sound like a drum in the rain. The walls were bare concrete, unpainted, and the windows were just openings with no glass, covered by what looked like pieces of cloth hung from nails. The door was a sheet of plywood. The ground in front of it was dirt.
Rosa was quiet for a moment. Her finger rested on the plastic over the photo.
"Nuestra primera casa," she said. Her voice had changed. Not sad, exactly. But close to it. "No tenía agua. No tenía luz. El techo se filtraba cuando llovía. Las paredes tenían agujeros."
She turned the page. Another photo of the same house, this one from the inside. A single room. A mattress on the floor. A small table with two chairs. A hot plate on a crate. A bucket in the corner that Connie realized, after a second, was the bathroom.
"Dos años," Rosa said. "Two years. Our home."
She turned the page again. A photo of Hector, younger than Connie had ever imagined him being. He was standing in front of the house with a baby, presumably Gustavo, in his arms. He was smiling.
"Aquí," Rosa said. She tapped the photo. "Aquí empezamos."
Connie looked at the photo. She looked at the house. She looked at the baby in Hector's arms and the smile on Hector's face and the way Rosa's finger rested on the plastic.
Hector was seventeen. Rosa was sixteen. They had a baby and a house made of concrete and tin and they built a family inside it. They built a life inside it. They built thirty-two years inside it.
…
Serena pulled the last plate from the drying rack and set it in the cabinet. Her fingers found the stack of animal print plates next. She wiped each one with the dish towel before putting it away.
Brice came through the doorway with the trash bag in one hand. He crossed the kitchen, pulled the bag from the can under the sink, tied it off, and set it by the back door. Then he opened the cabinet under the sink, pulled out a fresh bag, and fitted it into the can.
Serena watched him from the corner of her eye. She had been since he'd come back inside from the patio, since he'd walked through the kitchen without looking at anyone and disappeared down the hallway toward the bathroom.
Serena set the last glass in the cabinet and closed the door. She picked up the dish towel and folded it once, then twice, then hung it over the handle of the oven. She looked at the kitchen. The counters were clean. The island was clean. The dishes were put away. The trash was taken out. The only thing left was the dining table, where the animal print napkins still sat in their folded triangles at each place.
She walked to the table and started gathering them. Brice picked up the napkins from the other side. They met in the middle. He didn't say anything. She didn't either.
She carried the napkins to the drawer where she'd stored the rest of the party supplies and tucked them inside. Brice followed with the safari hats and set them on top of the napkins. She closed the drawer.
Serena stood there for a moment. The quiet pressed in from all sides.
She opened the cabinet above the refrigerator and pulled down a bottle of wine and two glasses, setting them on the table. The cork came out with a soft pop. She poured herself a glass, filling it until it felt right. She took a sip and leaned against the counter.
Brice stood on the other side of the island. He looked at the wine bottle. Then at her glass. Then at her.
He reached for the bottle. Poured himself a glass. He held the glass for a second then he brought it to his lips and took a drink.
It had been a while. Not since the season had started.
He set the glass down on the island. His hand stayed on it for a moment, his fingers wrapped around the stem. Then he let go and looked out the sliding door at the dark yard and the string lights and the invisible lake beyond.
She took another sip of wine. Brice picked up his glass again. He didn't drink from it. He just held it. His thumb moved along the stem in a slow, absent circle.
Serena set her glass down and walked around the island. She stopped beside him. Close enough that her arm pressed against his. She didn't say anything. She picked up her glass and took another sip and looked out at the same dark yard he was looking at.
His arm pressed back against hers.
They stood like that. The string lights threw their reflections back at them from the glass of the sliding door. Two figures side by side, glasses in hand, the kitchen clean behind them, the house quiet around them, the night stretching out ahead of them with nothing in it and everything in it and no need to name any of it.
