What a question. Of course! Get on that, girl. I know a bunch of professional athletes who don’t know how badly they need a style upgrade.
She sends me a smiley face emoji.
I haven’t checked my messages since yesterday’s fiasco of a meeting, and there are quite a few piled up. The team group text is full of congratulations to me. Great to hear you’re back with Charli, etc. Some of them make lewd references to my multi-hour disappearance from the group chat, but it’s harmless virtual catcalling.
Then there are the messages from my mother and sister. I wait until the coffee is brewed before I make myself face them. Paisley first.
Is Charli okay? That was really rough yesterday. I feel terrible. I always knew her as that girl who screwed up the soccer championship. But I never knew why. Can you give me her number or her email? I would like to apologize.
Man, you’d think that high school crap would be over by now. But I guess it never goes away. We all carry our sixteen-year-old insecurities around wherever we go.
Charli is okay, I tell her. And then I look up her email address and send it to my sister.
After that, I read the texts from my mother. They are not what I’m expecting.
Neil, Paisley yelled at me for an hour after the meeting.
She says she won’t speak to me until I apologize to Charli.
It’s hard to believe that a school I went to as a girl would tolerate that kind of behavior from a coach. I didn’t want to believe it.
I didn’t want to believe that it could have happened to your sister, too. And I might never have known.
When I think about how much money this family has given that school over the years, it’s a lot. I didn’t want to think that they might not deserve it. I didn’t want to hear that they let some of their students down so badly.
I wanted to be proud of Miss Draper’s School.
I’m still not sure what to do. I think I made a mess of everything.
At the very minimum, I’ll tell Charli I’m sorry.
Wow. That’s a lot of word vomit from mom. She’s obviously struggling. It’s easier to believe that everything is okay and that you trusted the right people.
I get it, but her struggle doesn’t let her off the hook. I send her Charli’s phone number, and tell her that I appreciate her efforts here. Charli isn’t going anywhere, I tell her. Please make your best apology, or holidays are going to be really awkward from here on out.
When I’m just finishing my first cup of coffee, my mom replies. At least we still control the foundation.
I roll my eyes at an empty kitchen.
Then I tiptoe into the bathroom to brush my teeth and start the shower. Before I get in, I cross the bedroom to perch on the edge of the bed. I put a hand on Charli’s bare back and massage the freckles I find there. “Wake up, kitten. It’s time to shower with me. I have to leave in ninety minutes.”
She rolls over with a smile. “You have the best ideas.”
I lean down to kiss her. Because she’s right. I do.
FORTY-ONE
WORLD CLASS APOLOGY
Charli
I float through the next three days. Even though Neil is out of town, I’m riding a high that just will not die.
“You’d better not be moving into a hostel,” Fiona says when I stop by to fetch more of my things. “Or I will hunt you down and drag you home myself.”
“It’s a really nice hostel,” I tease her. “Right across the street.”
“Fine,” she says, muting the TV. “I expect you to live there forever like a fairy tale character in the castle. But if anything goes wrong, I expect to see you right here.” She pats the sofa cushion. “And use your key.”
“Okay, thank you,” I say, humbled by the knowledge that my friends are more amazing than I’d given them credit for. “I really appreciate it.”
“Lake Como,” she says with a shrug. “I want to eat Italian food and ogle people with dark, Mediterranean eyes.”
“Roger dodger. See you at practice.”
Several hours later, I’m staring into Neil’s refrigerator when I get an unexpected food delivery from the Turkish place. It’s accompanied by a text: Wish I were there to spoil you in person. It’s my new favorite hobby.
There is really no easy response to such loveliness, except to send him a kissy face selfie. The first such selfie I’ve ever taken in my life.
But maybe not the last.
We’ll see.
A half hour later, the buzzer rings again, and a doorman tells me he’s sending flowers up.
Am I with the right guy, or what? Nobody has ever sent me flowers. The delivery guy appears, and I let him carry them in and put them on the new coffee table. The vase is enormous. It’s full of tulips in two shades of yellow.
I tip the delivery guy, close the door behind him, and pluck the full-sized card from the giant bouquet, where Charlotte is written on the envelope. And—hold on—these flowers are not from Neil. The thick paper stationery inside is embossed with Mrs. Paloma Drake.
His mother sent me flowers? Really?
Standing there in the middle of the living room, I read the handwritten letter from top to bottom.
Dear Charlotte,
After a good tongue lashing from both my son and daughter, I am ready to admit that I was far too caught up in my own drama to be properly empathetic to yours.
Darling, I made a grave error. I let a little thing like money get in the way of compassion and good sense. I wish I’d made a different choice. I apologize for my poor behavior. If I could go back in time and undo my vote, I would.
I am sorry.
With regard to that awful sports complex, Neil and I are trying to think of a practical way to undo the damage I have done.
If we come upon a solution, I’ll let Neil tell you. But in the meantime, I humbly ask your forgiveness.
I can already tell that you are a smart, talented young woman who loves my son very much. And I will be proud to spend the next thirty years posing beside you in publicity photos at various charity events where we are both bored off our arses and wearing uncomfortable shoes.
With much love,
P.D.
You could knock me over with a feather. I read the letter twice more in rapid succession. It’s not merely an apology, it’s a world-class apology.
If I were someone who cried, this letter might get me going.
Gazing down at the tulips, I can hardly believe my turn of fortune. It’s a rare thing when someone reverses course and does the right thing, even when she didn’t have to.
Maybe Neil’s mother isn’t so terrifying after all. I might have to notch her down from eight and a half to a six.
But now it’s time to watch some hockey. So I hurry back to the kitchen to finish my meal before Neil’s game comes on TV.
The Bruisers win in Tampa before heading down to Miami. Neil and I stay in touch with a long-running text conversation that has me smiling at inappropriate moments—such as behind the counter at the diner.
Sal catches me, and he rolls his eyes. “Thought you weren’t the kind of employee I had to yell at to put away her phone. Is it that handsome husband of yours?”