He didn't even really know why he was here.
Of course, the obvious reason was to eat dinner. He had just had the biggest football game he could ever have imagined, with three overtimes and a final victory that really pumped him up, but Hamilton didn't know why he had chosen this restaurant.
He and the other Packers had just finished a tough game against the Patriots, and he had really needed some food, and so he had managed to dodge the paparazzi crowding him and trying to ask him questions and get away from the stadium by six o'clock. He was impressed. Now, he was standing in front of a restaurant that read "Crossings Cuisine" in nicer, less sweat-drenched clothes, and he carefully looked inside to see if it was crowded.
It wasn't. He opened the door and walked inside to where a comparatively small man with a French mustache was greeting customers. "Veelcome, sir! How many are in ze party tonight?"
Inwardly grinning over the cheesiness of this man's obviously fake accent, Hamilton laconically said, "One."
"Excellent, sir. Right zis way." The man led him to a table by one of the windows. A small plastic French flag stuck out from a jar at the center of the table, but nothing else detracted from the elegance of the restaurant. Even Hamilton, who had seen much of grandeur since he was drafted by the Packers at 22, was impressed. He sat down slowly, careful not the bump the delicate table with his large frame.
"And vat shall ve having to drink, sir?" The mustached waiter still stood there, now tapping his foot impatiently.
"Just water, thank you." The waiter scurried off, then came back just as quickly.
"Oh, I shall not be your waiter tonight, sir. You shall have Miss Amelie. Such a charming lady." The waiter left again, and Hamilton was left trying not to guffaw. Of course, the appearance of the cuisine was exquisite, but if this "Miss Amelie" was anything like the waiter, Hamilton wouldn't be surprised.
"Excusez-moi?" Hamilton heard someone talking to him. He looked up and saw a waitress in traditional uniform standing at the table beside him. Her auburn braid hanging over her shoulder broke from the prim-and-proper look, and Hamilton had to grin.
The waitress saw him staring at her. "Oh. Uh, salut! Je m'appelle Amelie. Ta tasse d'eau est ici. Tien." She set a tall glass of iced water gently down on the table.
"Sorry, but I don't speak French," Hamilton said perplexedly as he resisted the urge to scratch his head. The waitress smiled, and her green eyes sparkled.
"Neither do I, but we're supposed to pretend. To tell you the truth, I'm from Boston. Now, qu'est-ce que tu veux diner aujourd'hui?" Hamilton only stared at her. "Do you know what you want to order yet, sir?"
"Oh, you can just call me Hamilton," he told the friendly waitress. "And, no, I don't yet. Hold on a sec—" he watched as a funny look came on Amelie's face.
"D-did you say Hamilton?"
"Mmm-hmm. Hamilton Holt, Packers lineman." But she seemed not to hear the last bit. When she heard the last name, she gasped.
"Hamilton?"
And, right then, Hamilton got the vaguest idea of who his waitress might be. He needed to make sure though. Trying not to drop his jaw at the coincidence of this meeting, he asked casually, "And you are…"
"Amy! Amy Cahill. Don't you remember me? Well, of course you do, but what are you doing here?"
Hamilton was struck dumb. He just stared blankly at her.
"Oh, right—Packers. Why didn't you tell any of us?"
"I-I did," Hamilton said as he finally regained his voice. "I told Dan. Didn't he tell you?"
Amy closed her eyes slowly in an almost exasperated gesture. "No. He didn't. Well, it's honestly good to see you. I'll be right back—I need to go help those people over there. Excuse me," Amy said as she slipped off towards the crowd now entering the restaurant. Hamilton just watched her go.
True to her word, she was back in minutes. Hamilton, by then, had prepared a series of questions to barrage her with. "So, why do you never come to the family reunions? I even come, although I sometimes have to miss a game. And do you work here? Like, really work here? And, and—"
"Slow," Amy quickly said. "I can talk to you, but you need to be deciding what you want to eat because I don't want to get in trouble." She glanced nervously toward the kitchen, and Hamilton caught a flash of the old Amy of fourteen years ago. "I haven't been coming because, well, I-Ian and I were finishing up, um, the problem. That's why he hasn't been coming, too."
Hamilton nodded slowly. "Mmm-hmm. And do you really work here? Because, somehow, I don't see that. I mean, it's you, Amy, working at a Fr—"
Amy cut him off again, and Hamilton saw her smile return to her face. "No, I don't. I just got accepted to teach literature at Harvard next term, but I needed a job until then, and this was good enough."
A big grin enveloped Hamilton's face. "Really?" A few people from other tables stopped to look at him. He quieted quickly. "Congratulations! That's great!"
Amy blushed and ducked her head. "Thanks, Hamilton. And I'm glad football is going well. I can't believe Dan didn't tell me…" she trailed off, then glanced up sharply again. "Excusez-moi, monsieur. Tu connais que tu veux? I don't think I said that right."
"The steak looks good," Hamilton decided. "Let's go with that."
Amy quickly jotted down the order and walked away to her next table, and Hamilton could hear her profusely apologizing for the delay. He didn't see hardly any of her later in the evening, as she absurdly busy, but on his bill was written a cell phone number and a small message.
Here's my number if you need it for some reason. Great to see you.
The friendship-light that had gone out turns on again.
~||~~/\\~~||~
Snow falling down gently crunched beneath her feet as Amy walked back from Gutman Library to where her car stood parked in the faculty parking section. She still couldn't believe that she was actually teaching here. Here she was, at the most prestigious university in American and, at twenty-eight, tied for second youngest professor ever to teach at Harvard. Mom and Dad would have been so happy.
Shaking her head quickly, she unlocked her car and reached into her purse to put her keys away, then stopped herself, feeling quite foolish. She brought them out again and started her car. Twenty minutes later, she was home.
Home, these days, was an apartment in downtown Boston. Cambridge was too far from Attleboro, with Boston traffic, for her to commute each day. Amy had quickly grown accustomed to this type of life, though, and so she didn't horribly mind. Besides, Dan was in graduate school at MIT and so was able to come see her frequently enough.
Amy walked into her apartment and pulled her cell phone out of her purse, turning it on after thirteen hours off, as she didn't want it to ring during a lecture. Surprisingly, she had only one missed call and voicemail. Puzzling over why Dan hadn't called her, as he generally did, she listened to the message.
"Hey, Amy. This is Hamilton. I'm in town again because we're playing New England again in playoffs. I was wondering if you could meet my girlfriend and me for lunch this Saturday because we're in town and I wanted her to meet you. Also, since you know about the whole thing I had a few years ago…anyway, if you could meet us for lunch at some café downtown, that would be great. Bye. Oh, and if you could also recommend a place, that would be great, too. Bye again."
Amy closed her phone. She did know about Hamilton's "whole thing." She remembered when, during the fight with the Vespers when they were twenty, a Vesper girl had managed to weasel her way into Hamilton's affection and almost ruin the Cahills and all of their plans. Only Amy had noticed, but she hadn't even done so because of suspicious Vesper-looking activity or anything. No, she had noticed because she had found out the girl was cheating.
And secretly investigating that for Hamilton led her straight to the truth.
Hamilton hadn't dated at all since then. He was too worried about having some other girl that wouldn't think he was good enough and cheat on him to ever get over the incident. It hit Amy that Hamilton had gotten over that. She smiled.
"Sounds good, Ham. Union Oyster House 11:30. Whats your girlfriend's name?"
A text from Hamilton came back quickly.
"Thx. Libby."
Amy put her phone away and spent at least half an hour trying to figure out what advice to give Hamilton and what to wear and anything else she could think of to worry about, and then promptly forgot it until ten o'clock at night on Friday. She quickly called them and made a reservation under the name "Holt," mentally slapping herself for forgetting.
Saturday morning dawned sunny and warm, for a January in Boston, at least. Amy woke up luxuriously late compared to her usual and got ready for lunch. She left an hour early in hopes of getting a parking place in crowded Boston and got to the restaurant at 11:20. Shortly after, Hamilton arrived with a woman with brown hair that was at least a foot shorter than him. Amy walked over to both of them.
"Hi, Hamilton. Hi, Libby. So nice to meet you."
Libby looked at Amy and smiled. "It is so good to meet you. Hamilton's told me about you. You're lucky, Hamilton."
Amy's mind was going rapid-fire as thoughts crossed. She doesn't call him Hammer. The other girl did. Hamilton told her we were cousins. I suppose we are. She seems nice. She really does like him. They actually look cute tog—
"Amy?" Hamilton was looking at her worriedly.
"Oh? Yes. We should be going inside." Amy led the way into the restaurant, and they were seated immediately.
The conversation at their lunch was much of what would be expected. Libby, though, seemed to be completely at ease and not at all trying to prove herself to anybody, Amy noticed. The other thing Amy saw was that she smiled. And when she looked at Hamilton, her eyes shone. His did, too. And Libby was truly exceptional.
When Libby excused herself to go to the restroom, Amy leaned over to Hamilton.
"How long have you two been dating?"
Hamilton smiled as he searched back in his memory. "Seven months?"
"Do your parents like her?"
"What? Oh. Yeah, they do. So do Mad and Reagan."
"She's not a fake. I can tell. And she's great."
Hamilton smiled, but she could see the relief in his eyes. "I didn't think so, but I wanted to make sure. Do…you think that, well…" He left the question hanging, then started again with a worried look on his face. "I'm sorry—I shouldn't be asking you all of this. I just don't have anyone else I really feel comfortable doing that with, you know?"
"I know," Amy said, but paused. And then she nodded. "Yes."
The expression on Hamilton's face was one of the happiest things she had seen in her life.
And Amy received a call a week later that Hamilton was engaged.
The friendship-light is secured with a bond called trust.
~||~~/\\~~||~
The night before, Hamilton had gotten married.
It was a simple affair, as only three weeks had been available for planning. Most of his Cahill friends had been there, though Jonah had been unable to attend because of a few concerts in China, as had the entire Green Bay Packers squad and all of the nurses in the ward that Libby worked at. His mom and dad had sat in the front row of the old church with Libby's parents, and he could see the happiness radiating from their faces.
He knew that joy could be found in his own.
Libby was beautiful. Her white dress that he was afraid to touch because he could dirty it, the roses she carried that he feared to smell in case they might be only an illusion, the perfect hair, perfect eyes, perfect person that he knew he wasn't good enough to marry. She said "I do," and he had never been more grateful and more alive in his entire life.
Nobody at the wedding was disappointed in the kiss at the end.
Amy had watched from the back beside her brother and let her joyful tears fall as she watched her friend be given and give one of the greatest gifts of all. Dan looked at her like she was crazy, but there was some great form of happiness, some vicarious thrill right there in that church that made her go up to the couple after the wedding and say "Congratulations" like she never had before. And the twin smiles that shone back at her from the happy newlyweds gave her proof that her diagnosis at the Oyster House had been correct.
Hamilton had watched as the wedding reception ended and everybody left. Soon, only Amy and Dan were left. Amy had walked over to him and nodded slowly, clearly, and said, "Hamilton Holt, you are so lucky. Libby Holt, you are, too. Good luck tomorrow. I'll be watching at the airport, Hamilton." Then she had left, with her brother trailing behind her, to return to Boston.
He stayed in Green Bay, though, because the next day, today, he had a Super Bowl game to play. He watched as the Jets lined up in their positions again, and quickly checked the timer. Forty-two seconds left. The Packers were winning, but the Jets had the ball. It was his turn to do his job.
The Jets center snapped. Hamilton ran up the side to the Jets' first man and tackled him. He found himself right beside the quarterback and promptly threw him to the ground, two. First down finished.
"And Hamilton Holt drives the Jets back eight yards with an incredible sack," the announcer said over the loudspeakers. "We're at second down and eighteen for the Jets with twenty-eight seconds left for them to score eleven points. This is looking pretty bleak for New York."
"Go, Hamilton!" he could hear his wife cheering from the family section, and he immediately felt a burst of adrenaline. The center snapped, and he ran.
He didn't even notice that his helmet had fallen off.
He ran at his man again, and managed to push him to the ground. This time, though, the Jets center pulled him down with him. Hamilton struggled to get up as the center held him there.
Pain exploded in his forehead. Darkness followed.
"Uh-oh, and we have a flag on the play. Number 39, Hamilton Holt, down and it looks like he's not doing so well. The referees are going out to examine, along with the Packers doctor. Holt's on the ground and there's a lot of blood coming from his nose. This is not good. The doctor's tapping him, but Holt's not responding. It looks like his nose got broken. Up into his forehead, it seems like. This could be dangerous. Paramedics are rushing on the field, folks. They're loading him onto the ambulance. Hamilton Holt might not be back on this field for a while."
The announcer didn't mention that he might not be back.
Ever.
Hamilton slipped in and out of consciousness. He saw his wife beside him fuzzily, and he saw the hospital, and he saw Amy Cahill, whose flight had been delayed, rushing over to see him, and he saw his wife sinking to her knees on the floor and he saw Amy's face mirror the one on the doctors and he heard Amy barely whisper in his ear, "We're going to let you go, okay? We're going to let you go. I'll take care of Libby." He saw Amy trying to hide her sobs, and he knew something was really, really wrong.
He heard Libby hit the floor, fainting. He felt Amy holding his hand and squeezing it gently. "She loves you. We're going to let you go. She really loves you. I am so, so sorry." Her voice fades out. Everything fades out.
Blackness.
The friendship-light flickers, on, off, on, off. A mighty hand reaches to push the switch down.
~||~~/\\~~||~
Amy sat silently in the hospital lobby as she watched the television. She had already tried to console Libby for hours, but she knew it would be to no avail. She had finally just gone to the lobby and tried not to think. Tried not to see the pain and confusion on Hamilton's face, and the unsurpassable peace as he slipped into darkness.
"Star Packers lineman Hamilton Holt passed away at 11:32 last night, about four hours ago. He was hit with his helmet off and fractured his skull. Holt, twenty-nine, had just married Libby West of Milwaukee, Wisconsin, the night before. His team, though they won the game, is currently in shock and grief. Nobody could have known such a devastating thing could have happened…"
Amy turned the television off. She tiptoed into Room 327 and sat down in the guest chair. The doctors and nurses had all left the room to take care of Libby, as she was in a state of shock. They had left the body in its bed.
Amy stood up and looked into Hamilton's face. She saw peace and serenity, and she could not stop herself anymore. She saw a friend. Tears fell.
Amy walked slowly back out of the door, never facing away from Hamilton. She reached for the light-switch just by the hospital room door. Her hand paused over the switch and she forced it down.
She waved goodbye.
The friendship-light turns off.
~||~~/\\~~||~
Probably my most depressing thing ever. This is for the Madrigals Prompt Challenge. The light theme is very subtle, to be sure, but it's there. And the present tense at the end of all the sections is intentional
Review if you feel the urge. Thanks for reading.