Page 32 of Lessons in Lemonade

Hash Brown Casserole

THERE ARE FLOWERS in my home.

Not from any of my friends or the team, but from Meg. Hell, the team knows dudes don’t want flowers; we want shit that’s going to make this go away as fast as it can. They sent over a schedule for when I should be in the training room to meet with the athletic trainers and who’ll be helping me maintain the rest of my body, along with a phone number for a chef who will bring me meals for two weeks when I’m ready.

But the flowers . . .

They are yellow and bright, a complete contrast to the muted gray, navy, and white tones of my condo, and I find my eyes are continually drawn to them. I’m angry at their colorful cheerfulness, as if all of this is the flowers’ fault.

I hate that I’m mad, too. It’s such a contradiction to how I thought I would feel when my career approached this crossroad, yet I can’t help it. I’m not ready.

The knee surgery ended up lasting three and a half hours. Multiple ligaments needed to be repaired, and they lied when they said I’d be home by lunch. Turned out it was closer to dinner, and I felt awful that Meg was stuck at the hospital all that time waiting for me. Of course, the first thing I asked when I woke up was if I will ever play again, and Dr. Watson just frowned and said he didn’t know, told me athletic abilities return differently for everyone, but he had full confidence I would heal up nicely in no time. The pessimistic dark cloud that had moved in sometime over the last twenty-four hours read between the lines: he doesn’t think I’ll be returning to the career, the sport, the life I love.

In addition to that, I’m also not ready for Meg to leave, and she will be first thing in the morning. I understand, though; just because my world stopped doesn’t mean everyone else’s did. Aside from the day she flew out to the game, she’s been with me for two days now, making a total of three, which is one and a half past how long she thought she would be gone. She had plans to fly back to Tampa after the game with Camille and Reid and then be off to Charleston first thing the following morning. I’m certain her restaurant manager Taylor has had about enough.

Hearing a noise in the kitchen, I tear my eyes off the flowers and shift them to her. The anger I feel dissipates a bit as I mentally take pictures to store away for later. I like having her in my house and among my things more than I should. Upon walking in, she had Zeus wrapped around her finger immediately, and she easily made herself comfortable, maneuvering around as if she’s been coming here for years. It was nice to watch, even through the haze of the medicine. She was like a little tornado as she took charge and whirled around from one thing to the next.

“Can I get you anything?” she calls over to me. Without her shoes on, she is short—like really short. Her head and half her chest barely peek above the counter, and another day at another time, I would most definitely make fun of her. Not today, though; I just don’t have it in me.

“Nah, I’m good. I just want you to come sit with me.” Like a security blanket, I want her near me all the time.

“Okay, just give me a few minutes and I’ll be right there.” She smiles at me then spins around. See: tornado.

I watch as she opens the oven door and bends over to check what’s inside. A big part of her whirling has been making me food that will sustain me for quite some time. Right after we got home from the hospital yesterday, she inspected my kitchen, and then using an app on her phone, she placed a large grocery order to be delivered. She’s been cooking nonstop and packing my freezer. I told her it wasn’t necessary, but she looked at me as if I was crazy. She and I both know how much I like food, specifically how much I like her food.

“It smells delicious,” I tell her as she walks over, pushes Zeus to the floor, and sits down on the couch next to me.

“I hope it will be.” She smiles warmly. He places his head in her lap and she pets him; I wish she were petting me. It feels so good when she has her hands on my arm, my back, or in my hair.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Church supper spaghetti. It’s not the healthiest dish with the cheese and noodles, but if you eat a salad with it, you’ll be all right.”

Color hits her cheeks as she looks at me, and I look at her without commenting in return. Her face is scrubbed free of any makeup, her hair is plopped on top of her head, and aside from how beautiful she is, the evidence of the last several days is present under her big, gorgeous eyes, like I imagine it is under mine, too. She’s helped me so much, and I’m incredibly grateful, even if my mood doesn’t reflect that.

“Tell me a story?” I ask, just wanting to hear her voice.

“What kind of story?” She pulls a blanket over her lap as Zeus curls up at her feet, and she tucks an escapee piece of hair behind her ear.

“It doesn’t matter. Anything about you.”

I want to know this girl, like really know her.

“Hmm. Let’s see . . .” She looks up and over toward the windows as she thinks, and then, surprising me, she says, “When I was going through chemotherapy, I lost my sense of taste.”

Shaking her head to herself, she looks back down at me, smiling a little, and I know my brows have risen.

“I’d loved food for so long, and I had known for years that whatever career I ended up in would somehow revolve around food, so shortly after the chemo started and that happened, I kind of lost myself for a while.”

“Is that normal, and how long was it gone?” I don’t move, don’t reach out to comfort her; she wouldn’t want it because she’s moved past all this, but still.

“Yes, it is normal, but at the time I didn’t know that. At first things just started tasting differently, and then I lost it. About fifty percent of people have taste changes. They don’t know why but think it has something to do with damage to the taste buds. All in all, I had issues for eight to nine months.”

“That’s a long time.”

“Yeah. Shelby and I had already been accepted to culinary school when this happened, and even though there was sufficient time for me to go through treatment and come out the other side, it was still hard. Nothing like explaining to teachers and other students that, while my hair had just started growing in so it was obvious what’d happened, I was there to be a chef but had no sense of taste.”

“That sucks. I’m sorry.”