A/N: Okay, this chapter is short, but I didn't want to leave that last chapter's ending hanging for too many days just because I hadn't written a second scene for this chapter yet.
Chapter Twelve
Tami digs her keys out quickly from her purse and maneuvers around Coach Taylor to open the front door, but he blocks her with his body and shoves his own key in the lock.
"I think I can manage to open a door, Tami."
The door glides on its hinges and hits the door stop with a small thud and a bounce.
Liam shoots through the opening between Coach Taylor and the frame and clatters upstairs to his room. Gracie eyes her father warily as she, too, slides inside and heads to the living room to grab a book she left on the end table and curl up in the arm chair.
Coach Taylor sighs and steps inside. He can feel Tami following him to the kitchen, where he tosses his house keys in the crystal, heart-shaped candy dish they use for that purpose. Tami won't keep candy in the house, because Gracie has a terrible sweet tooth.
Eric slides his hand in the left pocket of his khaki shorts and feels the cylindrical container. The pills rattle lightly. His broad shoulders are slumped as he walks to the fridge to grab a beer.
"You're not supposed to drink on your new medicine," Tami tells him.
"One beer, Tami. One beer isn't going to kill me." He pops off the bottle cap, puts the opener back in the drawer, and slams the drawer shut. He takes a long draught and begins walking to the master bedroom.
The beer bottle lands with a clink on the vanity of the master bath, and both of his palms go flat down on the faux marble by the sink. He stares at himself in the mirror, studies the light gray fuzz flecked throughout his stubble.
"Lord, Eric." Tami is hovering in the door frame. "You act like you'd rather have had a heart attack."
"Coaches have heart attacks," he says. "Mac McGill had a heart attack."
Mac had his second last April, fatal this time, and they flew to Texas for the funeral, a reunion of sorts. That was the third funeral they had attended in nine months. This is what it means to be middle-aged, he supposes. What was that term Tami used last week? The sandwich generation – kids still at home, relying on you, but Mom to take care of too, with weekly visits that involve walking down halls beneath the lingering scent of piss and bleach only to say, again and again, "Eric. No, Ma. It's Eric."
He rubs his fingertips over his stubble and lets his hand fall again.
"There's no shame in it, Eric."
He slides the bottle of Xanax out of his pocket and sticks it in the medicine cabinet, turning the label so it's not facing outward.
"You've been under a huge amount of pressure, sugar."
So has she, but she didn't end up in the hospital with a panic attack. Not Tami. He picks up his beer and sips again.
"Hon, take one of your pills and go lie down for a bit."
"I'm not taking a pill."
"Hon—"
"The doctor said as needed, Tami." He finishes off the rest of the beer in one long swallow. A thin wisp of foam paints the bottom of the bottle as he sets it down. "I don't need one right now."
"You better take them when you do."
"I will. I like breathing, believe it or not." He slides past her, but he doesn't head for the bed.
"Where are you going?" she asks when his hand is on the knob of the bedroom door.
"To talk to my son."