Rachel Gibson - Not Another Bad Date

Zach stopped at a red light and hit the window switch. As the glass slid silently down into the door, the cold night breeze brought the smells of autumn into the SUV, of cooling earth, dying leaves, and the Concho River. Three years ago if someone had told him he’d be living in Cedar Creek, Texas, coaching high-school ball, he would have laughed his ass off. If they’d told him he’d be living in Cedar Creek coaching football and liking it, he would have laughed his ass off and said they were nuttier than a pan of his momma’s peanut patties.

The light changed, and he drove through the intersection and into the E-Z MART parking lot. Once inside the store, he grabbed a six pack of Coke, a bag of barbecue chips and a box of cornflakes because he knew they were out of cereal. When his wife, Devon, had been alive, she’d let Tiffany eat crap twenty-four/seven. Now, Zach didn’t mind a little junk food; he had a fondness for Ding Dongs that would not be denied, but he tried to limit his and Tiffany’s crap consumption to the weekends. Tiffany because she needed nutritious food to grow, and him because he didn’t need to grow.

“Good game tonight, Coach Z,” the checker said as he placed the Coke and chips in a bag.

“Thanks.” Zach handed over a twenty to the young man, who wore the kind of eyeliner and Mohawk rarely seen in west Texas.

“My twin brother played for the Cougars back in ’04. He’s playin’ for Ohio now.”

“Did you play?”

“Nah.” He gave Zach his change. “I’m an art student at the University of Portland in Oregon.”

Zach chuckled. That explained the Mohawk.

“I’m heading back next semester.”

“Good luck in Oregon,” Zach said, and shoved his change in his front pocket. He grabbed the bag of groceries and headed outside. As he climbed into the Escalade, he thought back on what he’d been doing in ’04.

Four years ago, he’d been living in Denver, while his wife and Tiffany lived in Cedar Creek. He’d visit or they’d visit, but for the most part, they’d lived separate lives. For the last seven years of their ten-year marriage, they’d lived in different states. He and Devon had liked it that way.

In his last year at UT, his touchdown passes led the nation and he’d been picked up by Miami in the first round of the drafts. The summer after graduating from UT, he’d gone off to the Dolphins’ training camp while Devon had stayed in Austin to have Tiffany. After Tiffany was born, the two packed up and moved to Florida.

For the next three years, they’d been happy living in Florida. Devon had loved Florida, and he’d thought she’d loved him, too. But after three years with the Dolphins, Zach was traded to the Broncos. He was thrilled to be out from under Dan Marino’s long shadow, but Devon had hated living in Denver. After six months, she’d packed up Tiffany and moved back to the small Texas town where she’d been raised. Back to being a big fish in a small pond, and he’d discover that she loved being the wife of Zach Zemaitis more than she’d loved him.

For seven years they’d lived a life that suited them. She in Texas. He in Denver. He loved playing ball for the Broncos and figured he had a good five years until he retired, but that all changed one November 18 in a game against Kansas City. He didn’t remember much about that day except waking up in the hospital and getting the news that his career was over.

During his ten years in the NFL, he’d sustained eight concussions. And those were only the ones serious enough to report. After a series of scans and tests, he was told that one more concussion would likely kill him. He’d been forced to retire at the height of his career. At the age of thirty-two.

He might have fallen into a deep depression if he hadn’t been offered a sweet job with ESPN. While at UT, he’d managed to get his degree in communications and had been in negotiations with the sports network when his wife had been killed and his life took a complete one-eighty.

Zach slowed the Escalade and turned toward the river. It had been his intention to pack up Tiffany and move her with him, but the day of Devon’s funeral, he’d realized he couldn’t move her away from her friends and the only home she’d ever known. As he’d sat in the pew staring at his wife in her coffin, he’d felt his life change. With each tear his daughter had shed into the lapels of his suit, he’d changed. Like a compass showing the way north, his life spun in a completely different direction.

Before Devon died, he’d been able to tell himself Tiffany was better off living in Texas with her momma. God knew that if Devon wasn’t happy, then no one was happy, and Devon seemed to be happy only living in Cedar Creek. But sitting in church that day, all the lies he told himself fell away, and for the first time in a long time, he put the wants, needs, and desires of his child first.

Zach turned into a gated community and hit three numbers on a keypad clipped to his visor. During the day, the gates were opened to allow workers and visitors easy access, but they closed at eight P.M. each night. The gate lifted and closed behind him, and he drove past the Cattail Creek clubhouse and driving range. On his left, a Mediterranean-style villa glowed an eerie white in the dark Texas night. He turned right at the clubhouse and moved past a French modern that looked like three houses piled on top of each other, a Victorian with turrets, and into the long drive of a ten-thousand-square-footTuscan-Plantation-style house. The garage door opened as he drove past the portico, and he parked inside next to a twenty-four-foot Sea Ray.

Devon had built the house shortly after she’d moved back to Cedar Creek, and while the home was beautiful, it reflected little of Zach’s personal style. He liked things roomy, but ten thousand square feet with a guesthouse, and maid’s quarters across the yard from the pool, was excessive. Too big for three people, one of whom only lived there occasionally.

During its construction, he’d asked Devon why she wanted to build a huge Tuscan Plantation house in the middle of Texas. She’d looked at him and said as serious as a heart attack, “For the same reason I drive a Mercedes and have a five-carat diamond ring. Because I can.” Which pretty much summed up his dead wife and was one of the many differences that had driven them apart. Just because people let you get away with being an ass didn’t make it right. It was something he’d learned and Devon hadn’t.

Zach grabbed the EZ-MART bag on the seat beside him and headed across part of the courtyard and into the house. As he walked past the laundry and storage rooms, the thud of shitty hip-hop music assaulted his ears from the sound system built into the house. He moved into a small room where every aspect of the house could be controlled, and he turned the system off. After living in the house full-time for three years now, he’d mastered most of the gadgets, buttons, and switches.

“Tiffany,” he called out as he moved into the kitchen and set the groceries on the honey-colored marble counter. He heard footsteps running down the terra-cotta stairs a few seconds before his daughter appeared. Her long blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she wore a blue T-shirt and flannel pants. Tiffany’s arms and legs were long and thin, and she had yet to grow into her wide mouth and big green eyes. When she did, there was little doubt she’d be as beautiful as her mother.

A girl with dark brown hair and startling blue eyes followed in Tiffany’s wake.

“Did you get the Coke cola?” his daughter asked as she tore into the bag.

Zach didn’t feel the need to answer because his daughter pulled the six-pack from the sack and headed to the stainless-steel refrigerator. “Sugar, you need to introduce your friend.”