Page 3 of Second Chance

3

Taking a Chance

[Mati]

I hug the letter to my chest, tears flowing down my cheeks. Dammit, Christopher. Why did you have to bring up Denton? Why do you feel the need to direct me, even after death? I chuckle through the salty streams on my face, swiping briskly. Don’t fight me on this. He knows me well, stubborn to the core. We didn’t have a push-pull relationship. We had compromise. We were good like that. Christopher was levelheaded and methodical while I was wild and spontaneous. We worked. For twenty-five years of marriage, and the years before those as high school sweethearts.

He’s been gone a year, and I still feel a little incomplete. A cog sprung loose from a well-oiled machine—a coach missing her team. The thought forces me to wipe my face once more and check the time. I have practice at three-fifteen. I don’t know why I decided to tackle the last of Christopher’s home office today, but it just felt like the time was right. It was a year ago August, and with the holidays only months away, I want them to be special. Jax is expecting a child in November, and I want only joy for the new little life, not tears over death.

I fold the letter and take the second envelope with me to my bedroom. I can’t tackle another read—besides, this envelope isn’t addressed to me.

In twenty minutes, I’m at the high school gymnasium, my second home and center of the Blue Ridge Girls’ Volleyball team I coach. I claim these young women as family since I have no girls of my own. Jordan and Jax are my boys, both grown into men of twenty-six years old. Twins. What a shock it had been when the doctor said there were two of them. More shocking than the fact I was pregnant at eighteen. The fright of delivery and surgery to remove them forced me to rethink my dream of a team of children. I wanted ten. I’m happy with two. It’s hard to believe I’m on the verge of grandmotherhood. Jeez. That’s what happens when you have boys who can’t keep it in their pants, though.

The school bell signals the end of the day, and I anxiously await my girls. Team tryouts earlier in the month resulted in who I hope will be a winning combination for the fall season. I’ve coached here for years, after being a player myself at this very high school. My thoughts flash back to the mention of Denton in Chris’s letter.

Denton Chance.

All-star athlete. Hidden talent as a musician. Too big for this small town.

One of our oldest friends who would laugh if he discovered I still live here, working for the high school we attended. We went to school together our entire lives. Denton had been the boy next door. On the outside, our homes were picturesque Americana in the mountain ridges of Georgia, but behind the closed door of the mayor’s home, a darkness lurked for the Chances.

I shiver with the memory. As I stand in the gym awaiting my team, my eyes glance up at his name stitched in the banners, highlighting his achievements, or those of the teams he played on. Football. Basketball. Baseball. You can participate in it all in a small town, but music had been his passion. The whisper of his voice singing in my ear inside this gym makes me shiver again. Distant images flash through my mind like an old photobook, calling out for a second glance. Like the cabinets in Christopher’s old office, filled with years of history, collected on paper, and stashed in a long-forgotten drawer, the simple mention of Denton’s name in Chris’s letter opens the memories locked away nearly twenty-seven years ago.

I chuckle as I scan the dates on the banner. Has it been that long? Yep. Twenty-seven years since I graduated from this high school and I’m right where I was back then. Only Chris was my high school sweetheart, and he’s dead. Denton had been our best friend, and he abandoned us. I shake my head at the silliness of reminiscing. No good comes of it. The past is the past.

+ + +

Hours later, I’m rethinking things. I don’t wish to dredge up what happened or why. I just want to be faithful to Chris’s command, but I don’t know how to reach Denton. I could ask his sister Dolores who runs the local diner, but that would open a can of worms I won’t even go fishing with.

My fingers tap on the edge of the keyboard as I sit at Chris’s desk.

I’m doing this because Chris wants me to reach out to him, I tell myself. That’s it. He asked me to deliver this final message.

I’m not big on social media. I mean, the school has a page with the teams’ accomplishments. Our family-owned microbrew pub has a page for specials and events. My personal page I don’t often use because, well, in a small town, I see everyone I want to see, and avoid those I don’t. I have no need to be a busybody on Facebook. However, tonight, I’m searching for a name—Denton Chance.

Former classmate, I mutter to myself.

People do this all the time, I think.

I’m not stalking.

I’m mentally talking to myself, cheering myself on to complete the task at hand. Silently, I’m hoping I won’t find him. He might not even be on social media. My attempt to search him might be futile. Then I laugh. As famous as he is, he probably has multiple pages and accounts, and people who run them for him. I type in the search bar, and low and behold, there he is.

Denton Chance. Former rockstar. Current photog. Model.

Even with his age, there’s no denying it’s him. Rich, dark eyes. A face like a Hollywood actor. His hair isn’t dark brown any longer, but a light almond color mixed with white at the temples. Barely-there stubble graces his jaw with a hint of inky black and silver. He looks more like someone from a famous boyband than a rock band. He also looks good. Damn good for forty-five. I want to curse him for aging so well, but I don’t. Instead, the old feeling returns—the one I suppressed each time he was around me. The butterflies take flight, but I swat at them with an imaginary net, hoping to catch them before they fill me.

I loved Chris, but I always crushed on Denton.

I click the link to Denton’s name and my breath hitches as I’m accosted with an image of him. Smiling mischievously—his jaw edgy and hard—he looks every bit the rockstar he was and the model he is.

I don’t necessarily want to friend him, but I need to send a message. I hover over the Add Friend button, circling it like I’m highlighting something in my playbook.

“Aw, fuck it,” I say aloud and click. Instantly, I follow through to the message center and type:

Hey Denton. I’m pretty certain I have the right man. It’s Mati Rathstone. If you have a second, can you message me back?

I stare at the words as if I’m writing the greatest sentences known to mankind. It’s only a greeting, I admonish of the beginning. You need to introduce yourself, I remind myself. A question leaves the ball on his side of the net. If he responds, he responds, and if he doesn’t, I’ve done what Chris asked. I click the mouse, and the message sends.

Then the butterflies flutter up to my throat, and I nearly gag.

What have I done?