Austin.
Tim. He drops the last box into the floor in the living room and looks around. It's bigger than he remembers. Maybe because the last time they were here, it was filled with furniture and things – someone else's crap – and now it's . . . empty. Well, not quite empty. Ready to be filled. With our crap, Tim grins to himself.
Buddy Garrity wanders in behind Tim, babbling something about TMU – Tim can't quite make it out, and he's not really listening anyway – because, really, won't I be listening to Buddy Garrity babble on during football weekends and holidays from now until the end of eternity?
Tim heads to the balcony and opens the doors. The humidity of summer covers him like a hot, wet blanket. Not as humid as San Antonio, but still pretty stifling. Tim looks out at the buildings across town; he takes in the noise of the traffic below. New place, new job, new life. That's what growing up is about. Right?
"—if it didn't interfere with Panther football and if y'all were a little closer, you know?" Buddy is still talking as he follows Tim out to the balcony.
Tim looks back at Buddy blankly. "Sorry, sir?"
"The games. Your games," Buddy replies.
"Right," Tim replies. He still has no idea what Buddy is talking about, but doesn't really care. He's exhausted. Packing, loading up a U-Haul, making the drive from San Antonio, and dragging everything up three flights of stairs (no elevator) has taken its toll. And now Lyla's father is here. To help. Where is Lyla?
"Don't get me wrong, I like this town, Tim. I like it very much," Buddy leans over the railing and takes in the view.
Tim nods. He doesn't reply.
"I mean, I was a little disappointed when Lyla told me y'all weren't comin' back to Dillon – what daddy wouldn't be? – but I'm proud of my little girl. And of you, Tim. I mean, this job. It's a big deal, son."
"Thanks, Mr. Garrity," Tim takes a deep breath and turns around. He heads back inside and scans the room. Boxes cover the hardwood floors; there's a bed frame leaning against the kitchen island. He's looking for something.
Buddy follows him inside. "I'm gonna miss her, you know?" He stops in front of a full-length mirror – it's been haphazardly deposited in front of a closet. He touches the dusty glass with his finger. "She didn't really discuss this whole . . . move thing with me, yunno? Talked with Pam about the whole thing, yunno, but me . . . ." he trails off, watching Tim, sorting through boxes behind him, in the mirror.
Tim looks at Buddy. He hesitates before responding. This thing – Lyla's desire for independence – it's a delicate topic. He knows it. "We're only four hours away, Mr. Garrity. You'll see her plenty. Just give her some time to settle in," he offers. Gently.
"Right, right," Buddy nods quickly, the spell broken. "Of course. You're right. She just needs some time to settle in." He plasters a smile on his face.
Tim moves some boxes out of his path, eyeing the neat handwritten print – Lyla's, of course – on each box. Bedroom stuff, kitchen stuff, bathroom stuff. Where is that box?
"Y'all are gonna settle in here real nicely," Buddy's forced joviality cuts through the silence. He runs a finger along a dusty table blocking the path to the master bedroom. Bubble wrap hangs off the sides of the table; it's been hastily half-unwrapped amidst several other pieces of furniture scattered across the apartment.
Tim doesn't reply. He has found what he's looking for. He gets down on his knees and starts ripping the tape off of a large box marked "Tim's football stuff." Tim's football stuff. How many years worth of memories are in this box? Tim can hardly believe that it can be reduced to one large brown cardboard box marked "stuff."
Although he'll be reporting for practice in four short weeks, it's not quite the same anymore, is it? He'll be on the wrong side of the field, on the responsible side. The side that's not supposed to show up drunk to practice, that's supposed to keep track of players' grades (Tim finds that part of it particularly amusing), that holds the future of these boys – men, really – in his hands. It feels like yesterday – suiting up, running onto the field, hearing the roars of the crowd, feeling that adrenaline coursing through his veins. It's over in the blink of an eye. And you can't go back.
"It's real nice here," Buddy interrupts Tim's thoughts as he surveys the messy apartment.
"Yeah," Tim mumbles, continuing to rip tape off of the "football stuff" box.
"You and Lyla," Buddy continues absently. "Here together." He pauses, before casting a hard glance at Tim. "Just don't keep my baby girl living in sin for too long, you hear me on this, Tim?"
Tim stops ripping tape off the box, and looks up at Buddy. He is caught off guard, pulled out of the moment. He smiles, holding back a laugh. This man – who has hated Tim for pretty much as long as Tim can remember – is standing here asking him when he's going to marry his daughter. And I am gonna marry his daughter, we agree on that much, at least. "I love Lyla very much, Mr. Garrity," Tim says. "She means everything to me."
"I know that, Tim. And I'm just remindin' you that I expect you to, you know, make it right. You know? I'm expectin' you to take care of her, son. She's my baby girl."
"I understand, Mr. Garrity," Tim looks Buddy squarely in the eye. "And I will. I promise you that." They watch each other for a moment – they have known each other for so many years; they have seen the best and worst in one another, and – in their clashes over Lyla through the years – in themselves. They are family now. They know it.
Tim finally looks back down at his box, and pulls it open. He breaks into a wide smile at the familiar sight. He pulls out an old worn football – one of his old Dillon game balls. New place, new job, new life. New responsibilities. But this football, and the memories that go with it – this will never change. Tim holds the football to his chest and closes his eyes. This will never change.
Lyla. She pulls a six-pack of water bottles out of her trunk and leans against her car, blowing some stray wisps of hair out of her face. She's sweaty. She needs a shower. Did we even bring cleaning supplies?, she asks herself as she rests the six-pack of water against her thigh and wipes her face with a hand.
She's exhausted. The drive from Tim's apartment in San Antonio seems like it was a lifetime ago already, but just yesterday evening, she and Tim were sitting on the floor of his emptied-out apartment, eating pizza and drinking beer and trying not to think about the overwhelming changes that lay before them. One last moment of college solitude. And here we are. She's exhilarated and petrified. All at once.
Lyla watches as a young couple walk by her on the sidewalk, deep in conversation. The woman throws her head back and laughs; the man laughs, too. They continue down the street past the brownstone that Lyla rests in front of – my place, Lyla smiles. Our place. She watches as the couple continues down the street until they are out of view.
I love this place, Lyla stands and pulls the six-pack of water close to her chest. I love this place. Lyla smiles as she crosses in front of a mom and a toddler who attempt to navigate the cracks in the sidewalk, much to the toddler's delight. I love this place.
She heads up the steps of the brownstone – she fell in love with it when she and Tim first saw it two months ago – she knew, she just knew that this was it – the neighborhood, the building – she knew it before the realtor even took them up to see the apartment. This was it. Lyla loves the feel of it – the couples, the toddlers, the Starbucks down the street, the bar next to the Starbucks (okay, so Tim likes that); it's so different from her apartment in Nashville, so different from Dillon.
It had taken her all of 30 seconds to convince Tim. His only concern about finding a place had been its distance to TMU, which would directly impact how early he'd have to roll out of bed to make it over to campus for the painfully early Sunday morning coaches' meetings. Easy concession for Lyla, whose job for the governor's chief of staff (thank you, college internship!) would be in the centrally located state capitol building.
I live here, Lyla smiles as she climbs the steps with her water. She fumbles with a key (I have a key!) to her new building and opens the front door. It feels solid. Sturdy. Dependable. She steps inside and looks around. A few newspapers – still wrapped, unclaimed – lie on the floor. She runs a finger over her new mailbox. There's no name on the box yet, just a number. 353. Their new place.
Lyla makes a mental note to talk to the superintendent about adding their names. Riggins-Garrity. Garrity-Riggins? Maybe just Riggins. Am I going to take Tim's name? I mean, when – if – when we get married? Lyla feels her cheeks getting warm. She recalls the high school study halls absently spent doodling "Mrs. Timothy Riggins. Mrs. Lyla Riggins. Lyla Riggins." Don't all girls do that?
Lyla smiles to herself. And here we are. Tim and me. New place, new job, new life. Together. That's what growing up is about. Right?