The Beautiful Truth

// 120

"He's playin' well today, huh?" My dad nodded toward the field as Jason Mandrino lined up in the backfield Saturday late in the third quarter at OU.

I smiled behind my sunglasses. It was nice, sitting here in the Oklahoma sun with my dad. The weather was perfect, and after my Thursday night in Berkeley, I'd gotten out of town.

Granted, I'd bought this plane ticket before I'd known when Michael's Mistress was leaving town, but I couldn't have planned it better if I'd tried. By the time I got back to Berkeley Sunday evening, they'd be gone. There'd be no chance of running into Barton Black for a solid two months.

"He is, isn't he," I agreed happily. Being a running back was only a semi-glorious job, but no one could complain about Jason Mandrino.

My dad smirked in his own sunglasses as a slight breeze blew in from the south. "Yeah, I wonder what's gotten into him?"

I rolled my eyes.

"So is this how it ends?" he asked, settling back into his seat while the Sooners cruised to another victory over Arkansas.

"How what ends?" I frowned.

"You can't figure out Barton and Talyn, so you pick Jason again?"

He was skeptical of my happiness, and had been since he met me here in Norman this morning. We'd headed straight to the tailgate—stopping by to see Jason's family and a few people I knew from high school. I hadn't gotten the chance to tell him about Talyn or the script, yet, so I supposed my mood was a little suspicious. I'd get around to that stuff later.

"It's not like that," I told him, trying not to sound defensive.

I knew my dad knew that much.

"I know that," he agreed. "But does he?"

I flinched a little on the inside. I wasn't sure I knew the answer to that.

Jason picked me up at the airport yesterday morning, grinning from ear to ear. A big hug had turned into a sweet kiss, and now that my dad was asking the question, I wasn't so sure that Jason wasn't...falling...

I stopped myself before I could think it. Jason made me happy. He pretty much always had, despite that persistent, fine layer of awkwardness between us.

My dad smiled knowingly. "You'll figure it out, Say."

I sighed. "Sure, sure," I slouched lower in my seat, enjoying the sun on my face and bare arms. "I kinda talked to Talyn Thursday night."

My voice was almost low enough to be classified as a mutter, but my dad heard me plain as day and immediately perked up.

"Kinda?"

I laughed softly, and shook my head slightly, still deep in my seat, casually watching the game. "Did you happen to catch the end of his game the other night?"

"When they interviewed him? Yeah, he sounded extra...Talyn...-y—"

"I finally looked over at him. "Talyn-y? No wonder you haven't written a book in my lifetime."

My dad smirked with self-deprecating agreement. "Right."

I laughed. "Yeah, I told him once that if he ever pulled some Varsity Blues crap on TV and thanked God and his momma for the win, I'd punch him in his face."

"Good thing he was 2,000 miles away."

"Right. I called him and left a message."

"Did he call you back?"

I shook my head and shrugged uncomfortably. "He sent me a text...said he wasn't ready to talk yet, but quote: 'at least you know I miss you.'"

"Did you think he didn't?"

I shrugged again. "I hurt him, I think."

He squeezed my shoulder. "And, he hurt you, right? You're even. Stop beating yourself up. You two are too close to ever stop being part of each other's lives."

Deep down, I knew he was right...or hoped he was right.

"He'll come around," he added.

"I hope so."

"Eh, I know so. Though waiting is the hardest part."

I pressed my lips together and pushed myself up in my seat. "I'm sorry, did you just dispense life advice to me in the form of Tom Petty lyrics?"

He gave me a crooked Kerry Fitzgerald smile. "Jesus, I did, didn't I?"

I flared my nose and shook my head in concerned disgust. "I do love some Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. But don't do that again."

He laughed as the clock ran down to the final seconds. The crowd cheered and the cannons blasted to celebrate the Sooner victory. We stood from our seats as the mass exodus from Memorial Stadium began.

"Thanks for lettin' me tag along," he winked at me.

"You think I'd come this close to home and not see you?" I frowned. "And don't think you're leaving me now—he's got at least two hours before he's done. Let's go eat, please?" I added with a great big grin.

He seemed pleasantly surprised by my request to spend more time with him, although I didn't know why he would've thought I wanted him to run off immediately. Everything I'd put myself through since the summer, he'd been there to help however he could. We'd always been as close as two solitary people could be, but somehow, being away from each other had made us so much closer.

I guess a lot of that could also be attributed to finally, finally talking about Laurel. Truth has a way of doing that to people—you know, setting them free and all?

"So, apparently someone wants to buy my script," I finally forced out while we waited for the check after a big Oklahoma steak dinner.

My dad's eyes widened, but not in horror like I'd anticipated. This was excitement, and a bit of amusement, the latter probably brought on by my completely awkward lack of segue. We'd just been talking about the Cal game at Oregon that would be on ESPN later.

Madame non-sequitur strikes again.

"Sawyer, that's incredible! When did you find that out?!"

"Thursday evening." As I relayed the details of my conversation with Dr. Bovich, I watched Kerry for his reaction.

"Have you called this agent yet?" he finally asked.

"I found out Thursday before the game, got on a plane to Norman yesterday at the crack of dawn, and we just spent the afternoon watching football. When was I gonna call?"

He laughed. "So Monday then."

Truthfully, I was putting it off because I wasn't sure I wanted this...thing to come to life. Writing it had changed my life already—did I really need to do anything else with it? This was such a personal story. And the prospect of bringing it to life was nothing if not...daunting.

"If you think you need my permission, Sawyer, you've got it," he told me, reaching for his wallet as the waiter dropped off our check.

"You don't mind putting all that out there?" I asked carefully.

"It's been out there for almost twenty years," he shrugged.

I looked at him disapprovingly. "Not all of it."

He gave me a brief smile. "I know, but it's time it was, I think," he winked at me. "You're talented, Sawyer. Don't be afraid of that."

I sighed shakily. "Monday."

We nodded once in agreement, and left the restaurant.