brett

Dads are supposed to know all about navigating relationships. So I go over to my parents’ place to talk to my dad about Layla, what’s going on, and how I tried to have a nice date with her but my mere presence made her physically ill.

“If you’re going to fix things, you have to first figure out what was broken,” he says.

“I know what was broken,” I say. I think about my childish focus on myself and yet can’t bring myself to say that. Instead I remark, “Everywhere I looked, there was Layla. She’d become so tightly integrated into the family, it’s like I almost started to view her more like a sister than a wife.” Because she seemed more focused on them than on me.

“Well, she was your wife, not your sister,” my dad remarks.

“I know,” I snap. “I made a mistake.”

“We all knew you were making a mistake.”

“Saying ‘I told you so’ doesn’t help. Maybe I should just go talk to Mom. She won’t even remember what an asshole I am.”

The look on my dad’s face tells me I’ve overstepped. That and the fact that he walks out of the room.

I call Coach Wells and ask him to meet me at our spot: Baby Blues Barbecue in Venice. I know he won’t let me down. And even if he does, I’ll still have the ribs.

“Sounds like you missed the signal,” Coach Wells says. “You decided to drop back to pass and she was thinking it was a running play. You need to figure out a way to get on the same page with the rest of your team.”

“I’m not talking about my team,” I say.

“Yes you are, moron. That relationship with Layla is the most important team you are ever gonna be on.” He’s right. I know that.

He goes on. “So now you wanna play in the national championship? You gotta earn your trip. You can’t just decide you suddenly want to play in the title game. You don’t just waltz into the Super Bowl if and when you feel like it. You gotta go through the play-offs. You gotta earn it. You gotta keep fighting.”

I shake my head, feeling like earning it is the last thing I can do.

Coach Wells knows me. He puts his arm around me and says, “You know, kiddo, I meant to talk to you about something at the end of the season. Dusty Caldwell came to me. He said he saw how—let me get this straight—‘whack’ you were looking, and he wondered what was going on. He wanted to assure me that you’re one of the best coaches he ever had, and wanted to tell me you stopped him from doing something pretty stupid earlier this year. He didn’t elaborate. He also said that he didn’t care what our record was this season, next year he’s going to break every interception record in the books. And do you know, I think that kid could do it. So do you know what I’m saying?”

I do. I really do. And it’s perked me up.

“One more thing,” Coach Wells adds. “He says he’s done visiting the Crab Shack. I have no idea what that means, and I don’t think I want to.”

• • •

It’s a confusing day when you go to your lesbian sister for relationship advice and tips on how to get a girl back. Not to mention humbling.

“Ouch,” I say, as she smacks me upside the head. “Hold still,” she says, and reaches her arm out to do it a second time.

“Are you kidding me?” I say. “Quit!”

“It’s too fun,” she says. “And deserved.”

“Fine, but that’s it. No more.”

“Idiot.”

“I know, okay? I know.”

Kimmy walks out of the kitchen and smiles at me. “Trish always said this day would come.”

“Really?” I say. “I’m gonna get I told you so’s from my sister and her girlfriend? Have you even been her girlfriend long enough to have those privileges?”

I smile, so she knows I’m kidding. She smacks me upside the head like Trish did. It catches me off guard.

“Hey!” I shout.

“Yes,” Kimmy says, “I qualify. And I’ll be sticking around, so get used to it.” She shows me an engagement ring around her finger.

Trish beams and wraps her arms around Kimmy’s waist from behind. “She’s not going anywhere.”

It’s sweet to see Trish this happy. And rare. If I wasn’t so desperate for help—and if I wasn’t so sensitive about mistakes and marriage—I’d rub her nose in how in love she is. Because that’s what we do.

“Who’s gonna be the best woman?” is all I manage. Weak, I know.

“You’re gonna have to do something major,” Kimmy muses, as we get back to my dilemma. “What she said,” Trish agrees.

“I know.” I sigh. “But what? I have no idea where to start.”

“What have you tried?” Kimmy asks.

“Lunch,” I offer meekly. “At one of our spots. And wine tasting—something she always wanted to do—a beautiful drive up the coast, and then she yaks.”

“Pardon?” Trish asks.

“She threw up,” I confirm. “Apparently, she quit drinking and—”

“Wait,” Trish interrupts. “Who are we talking about here?”

“Layla,” I answer, annoyed. It’s not like she didn’t hear me. Making me repeat it for comic effect is not my idea of a good time.

“I’m gonna let you two talk this one over,” Kimmy says. “But I suggest you show Layla what she means to you in an unexpected way. Show her that she comes first, above all else.”

Kimmy walks off, leaving Trish and me staring at each other.

“You fucked up, brother,” she says. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

“What can I do?” I ask. “What does she need?”

“A bunch of money would be nice. Oh, and a husband who’s not a total idiot,” she says.

We sit quietly as this resonates, and suddenly it’s crystal clear what I’m going to do.

“You’re a genius,” I tell Trish.

“I know,” she says. “But why are you pointing this out?” I don’t take the time to explain.