Somebody went out to help him. One of the JV girls. A sophomore I didn’t know.
He let her walk beside him. But he didn’t take her arm.
He made it all the way to the end of the bleachers on his own.
Then he climbed the four steps. One at a time. Hand on the rail.
And he sat down in the front row right next to me.
He was breathing hard.
He reached over and patted my knee. Twice.
“Well,” he said. “That went all right.”
I couldn’t answer him.
I just put my head down on his shoulder, on that tan Sunday sport coat that still smelled a little like cedar from his closet.
And I cried like I hadn’t cried since my mother died.
Down on the floor, the coach had come out with her phone to take the picture.
Travis and Kaylee stood in front of her poster. Him holding the rose. Her holding his arm. Both of them red in the face.
