Page 75 of The Way We Touch
“Mrs. Patience has a baby boy named Jack, just like my daddy!” Kimmie has been talking nonstop since her first day of kindergarten, and it’s clear she’s very impressed by her teacher.
“She said his name is really John, but they call him Jack.” Her little brow furrows. “Why don’t they just call him John?”
She’s sitting on a stool at the large silver work table. A small bowl of shredded cheese is beside her, and she’s putting it between two bite-sized flour tortillas.
“I’ll be honest, Peanut, I have never understood the whole Jack-John situation.”
“Is Daddy’s real name John, too?”
“Nope.” I point to her little plate. “All done?”
She nods, and I carry it over to Thomas to give a quick grill. Stopping at the fridge, I take out a ramekin of mild salsa made with no peppers and carry it to her.
“Take this out to the table, and I’ll bring your quesadillas when they’re ready.”
It’s a regular Monday night at Cooters & Shooters, which means it’s pretty slow. All the young and single football watchers are at the sports bar in town, and now that school is back in session, our family customers are home for the start of the week.
Only a few older people and a couple of tourists are dotted around the large dining room, and Salina runs around taking care of them.
Craig is off work after covering the day shift, but he’s here along with Jack, Zane, Allie, and Austin for the big night. My first viewing of Logan.
Thomas hands me a platter with four hamburgers and Kimmie’s dinner. I decided to wait until after the game to eat. My stomach is in knots.
Logan
About to head out on the field. Glad your first day went well. Wish I’d been there.
I reread Logan’s text several times, and every time I do, my heart does a little skippy beat.
I wish you were here too, but for different reasons.
He replies with a devil emoji, and I exhale a laugh. Then he sends me one last message.
Logan
If they show me on the field, this means I’m thinking of you.
He sends a hand emoji with the thumb and index finger crossed. I’m not sure what this means, but I send back a selfie of me in his jersey doing a thumbs up.
Have a great game!
Logan
Man, I wish you were here.
His reply sends heat through my stomach, and I shove the phone in my pocket before heading out with everyone’s dinner.
All four flatscreen televisions over the bar are tuned to the game, and the aggressive music makes my heart beat faster. The announcers are all animated, talking to each other about the stats of the major players. As they go through each one, a large photograph of the player being discussed appears on the screen.
“Uncle Gary!” Kimmie yells when they show Garrett’s face along with his height, weight, experience, and age.
The team of brother-sportscasters talks about what makes a good offensive lineman and how hard it is to quantify. They’re going on about my brother’s ability to open a path when the screen changes, and Logan’s image appears. My heart jumps to my throat.
“Lightning McQueen!” Kimmie yells, holding up both of her hands.
He’s not smiling, and he’s incredibly hot in his shoulder pads and jersey. On a line under the screen they list yards, touchdowns, and first downs in addition to height, weight, and the rest.
“Look at those numbers.” Zane’s voice is low as he pours ketchup on his fries. “No receiver’s that fast. When the ball is coming, he’s there, and Garrett’s going to clear a path every time.”