Page 45 of Lessons in Lemonade

Hearing her talk about what she went through does humble me. I know I’ve been a sad sack since Tampa, and I’ve been so wrapped up in my own life and my injury; after last night, I can’t help but wonder what she thinks of me. Yes, what she went through and what I’m going through are both life-changing, but thinking daily about how you might not live to see the next year is significantly different than thinking about what my next career path might be.

I know she’s sympathetic, but does she think I’m being ridiculous for taking this so hard? It’s not like I can change how I feel. This sucks too, and I’m sad.

Pulling into the college, I take in the sights and think about how this could have been my life: a military college. I was right to choose the path I did; I never would have been happy in this life. I needed bigger, freer, more. My personality has always been large, free-spirited, and I don’t respond well to people telling me what to do. I’ve always known this, and it’s too bad my father never has.

Meg asked me the other day why I didn’t go to stay with my parents after the injury. As much as I love them, their routine is so rigid and boring it’s stifling. The walls would have closed in on me and I would have gone crazy if I had to sit there with them, eating at the same time every day and watching the same television programs. For a couple of days, it’s fine, but I can’t do it long-term. It’s not me, and any longer than a normal visit would have put me in flight mode from myself.

I also knew if I was there, I would be missing out on something over here. Whether it was here in Charleston or back in Tampa, I needed to be on this side of the country, just in case. As it turns out, Meg has her brunch coming up. I like being here with her and getting to be a part of it, even if it’s just a small part like tasting food.

Food—just the thought has my stomach growling. It’s going to miss all her cooking when I head back to Tampa. Then again, as I run my hand over it and feel the slight change the food has already made, maybe not. Whatever, it’s worth it. I wouldn’t trade this time with her for anything.

Parking the truck, I stare up at Seignious Hall, which houses the football coaches’ offices, the locker room, and a top-of-the-line training room. Mentally I begin preparing myself for the world of pain I know my friend Eddie is going to put me through.

Still on crutches, I make my way into the building and into the weight room, where I scan over all the equipment. I’m happy to see Eddie is doing so well.

“Hey, man, can I help you?” A kid over by the free weights that line the edge of the room looks my way.

My attention snaps to his and I realize, while I’m lost in thought, he’s looking at me curiously like he knows me but isn’t sure where from. How long has he been staring at me?

“Yeah, I’m looking for Eddie Bunton.”

His brows rise as he looks me up and down, his gaze lingering just a clip on my leg. Suddenly one brow pops and his eyes widen slightly. He recognizes me, and his cheeks redden. “Sure. I’ll go get him for you.”

“Thanks.”

The kid scampers off, and suddenly I find myself nervous. I’ve somehow convinced myself that by coming to Charleston, between Meg and him, they’re going to make all this better, he’s going to make me better . . . but what if he can’t?

Continuing to look around, my eyes catch on the large blue and white mural of an angry bulldog on the wall with #CitadelStrength stamped across its forehead. It’s fitting for this space, and I can’t help but feel nostalgic for my college days.

“Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in. I swear I haven’t seen you in a month of Sundays.”

Looking toward the voice, I let out a pent-up sigh as Eddie grins from ear to ear and walks straight for me.

“Eddie.” I smile back, and he wraps me in a hug, patting me hard on the back.

Over his shoulder, I see the kid is lingering behind to watch. I play my role, smile at him, and give him a nod. He breaks out into a toothy grin then heads back to the wall, leaving us.

“Welcome to the Dawg Pound, my friend,” Eddie says, pulling back to give me a once-over. “I swear you’re even bigger than the last time I saw you.”

A laugh bursts out. “Hopefully the good kind of big and not because I’ve been sitting on my ass for six weeks.”

“Always the good kind, but now that you mention it . . .” His hand smacks me in the gut and I let out an oof while shoving him backward. “I’m happy you called.” His expression is genuine, and I feel more hope and less doom than I have in a long time.

“I appreciate you taking the time to see me. I needed to get out of Tampa for a bit, need to try to get this”—I point to my leg—“back to some kind of normal before I return.”

“I think we can do that.” His smile is reassuring.

“Oh, before I forget, this is for you.” Bending down, I unzip my bag and pull out a plastic container of lemon poppy seed muffins that Meg made. I hand it to him, and his brows rise in interest.

“What’s this?” he asks.

“Muffins from Meg. She said to give them to you as an in-advance peace offering for the pain in the ass I’m probably going to be.”

He laughs then says, “Meg,” turning her name over in his head. “The reason you’re in Charleston?”

I shrug my shoulders and can’t help the small smile that forms.

His smile widens. “What is she? Former cheerleader? Grad student? Super fan?” he teases.