The Real(78)

“Pretty much.”

I felt Bree’s elbow dig into my ribs and let out a ticklish laugh as she passed us on the carefully laid dance floor in the middle of her yard, my mother in her arms. My mother, though unamused with my behavior, egged me on. “I love her more than you at the moment.”

“You two can go straight to hell,” I said with a smile plastered on my face.

Anthony led me to the dance floor with a chuckle. “I really love the three of you together.”

“Meh, we only let my mom in because she’s a good cook. Oof,” I said as my mother elbowed me. “Kidding, Mom. Shit, I need that to breathe.”

“Would you please try to act like a lady tonight?” she hissed my way as we all danced in the tight space.

I refused to let it go. “Your adopted daughter is passing out lube and French ticklers as wedding gifts.” My mother’s eyes widened as she smiled at Bree with delight. “Oh, remind me to grab one of those before I leave.”

“It’s always the blonds that get away with shit in this family!” I said with an eye roll.

“Watch your mouth,” my mother scolded as Bree stuck out her tongue.

“You have gotten a little worse, sailor,” Anthony commented.

“I know,” I said, remembering how Cameron loved my filthy mouth. “It’s unattractive, right?”

“Nah, I just wanted to give you shit too, but it seems to be backfiring on me tonight.”

“Hey, I should be consoling you. Have you seen the feet on your bride? Jesus.”

I felt two asses simultaneously bump into mine as “Shake Your Groove Thing” began to play. My mother looked like an old lady trying to dance, and I couldn’t help but notice her age as she did her best to get me to move with her. Taking off my heels, I gave in and joined my two favorite women in the world while my heart was still slipping away from me piece by piece, filtering in the air above me, calling like a siren to its owner who had disappeared like he’d never existed.





Ask a hundred people what love means to them and you’ll get a hundred different answers. I suspect most of them will say it has something to do with comfort or safety. But that’s false.

That’s what God is for.

Maybe in the afterlife of firsts; first look, first kiss, first year, comfort and safety come into play, but the initial feeling should make you scared and more than uncomfortable. It should terrify you to lose it.

Most people don’t know that. In fact, I bet only a handful of those hundred have ever felt it. And that makes those who haven’t had it envious, but that can be dangerous too.

A lot of people covet freedom but have no idea what to do with it once it’s earned and then find they were better off without it.

I think the same thing applies to love. The kind that can change you and twist you into a better person all for the affection of someone else. It’s both a gift and a curse and it has the power to elate you as well as leave you destitute within seconds. Because nothing that feels so good could ever, should ever, start feeling so bad. But, that’s the way of it. It’s the most powerful of emotions, therefore those who are gifted it should have the most powerful of consequences if it’s left unattended or taken for granted.

And I did.

I was guilty. I had too much faith in our relationship and I ignored the threatening undercurrent in time to save us both from being swept away.

I needed her. I needed to believe there was more for me. For us both.

I was living with the consequences with every breath I took while my days blurred with the loss of her.

And still I’ll tell you she was worth it.

Because she was.

Every second, every minute I stole with her was worth the hell I was tossed back into without her.

She slapped me. Most men wouldn’t think anything of it, but with her it was my breaking point and it was no secret why. At least for me. Abbie was still in the dark.

I scared her with my reluctance to tell her the why, when all I wanted to do was erase the wall before it erected between us.

How much I’d fucked up.

When I tried everything in my power to save my marriage it still collapsed, and so had my shot of happiness with Abbie’s refusal to believe I was a worthy man. A man better than just some philandering asshole who didn’t think one woman was enough. But Abbie was enough.

She was overabundance.

In the entirety of my life, all I knew was that I wanted to be seen as a worthy man. That had been my only goal, in my marriage, in my business, in my friendships as a coach and in my relationship with Abbie. It was instilled in me by my mother, it was my foundation.

From the time I was young enough to know better to the day she left us. I needed her, and she wasn’t there. I needed her when my marriage fell apart, when my life spiraled out of control because of it. And I needed her then, as I stood at her grave, looking down at the granite etched letters of the name of my best friend and compass. I’d relived the last day I was with her too many times and yet not enough to figure out what to do when there were no more words. No more direction. I wondered how many other cancer orphans wandered around aimlessly seeking answers to questions they forgot to ask.

“You can’t be here son. We agreed,” my father said softly as I approached her bedroom door. In that moment, I hated him for trying to take her from me. But when I looked at him, all I saw was a man defeated. He was losing her too, and it showed in the lines covering the face mine mirrored. But I had her eyes and I knew it was painful to look at me. I was a product of her and I think, in a way, that fact hurt him too. Mark Bledsoe was a man’s man, full of pride and quick to anger. The only tenderness he revealed was when it came to his wife. Despite the fact that I mostly played every sport in some search for misplaced approval, she was what we had in common. It was our love of the games that kept us civil, but it was always her that held us together. What would we be without her?