Marriage.
Tim. He grabs his keys off of the table and hesitates. He looks back at Lyla. She is laughing at something on television, eating ice cream. His eyes drift toward the television set – it's huge, of course, since Buddy Garrity insists on having a proper big screen to watch (and re-watch) highlights of Dillon Panther games. The size of the television lends a strange clarity to the "Curb Your Enthusiasm" rerun that Lyla is watching.
"I'm going," he says.
"Okay," she looks up from the television, a smile still playing on her lips. "Have fun, tell him I say hello. That I miss him."
"Yup," Tim approaches her from behind, leans down over the couch, and plants a kiss on her head. "Sure you don't want to come?"
"Yeah," Lyla leans her head back against the sofa. "It's . . . been a long time. I mean, just – you should see him first, you know? Before . . . to tell him – to ask him. You should ask him. He's your best friend."
"Right," Tim nods, tossing the keys from one hand to another as he comes around to the front of the couch to face Lyla. "I hate leaving you here alone . . . ." he trails off.
Lyla licks her some ice cream off of her spoon and glances sideways at Tim. "I think I'll be able to handle any Panther-related activity in the surrounding area," she says drily.
Tim grins, shaking his head. He doesn't move.
"Seriously," she says, looking back up at him. "Go. I'll be okay, me and my ice cream," she smiles at him. "You're going to be late for dinner." Tim watches her move a hand to her burgeoning belly and pat it. Unconsciously.
This small movement brings a smile to Tim's face. He loves how pregnancy has changed every aspect of Lyla's being, and how it hasn't changed her at all. He loves that Lyla finishes a pint of vanilla ice cream every night, and that she won't share any with Tim ("I'm already sharing with the baby," she reasons). He loves that Lyla still wears his old Dillon Panthers tee shirt to bed every night – the one she took from him when they were high school juniors – even though it now strains to cover her belly (and he loves that, despite his four years as a San Antonio State Wildcat, she remains loyal to the Panthers). He loves that Lyla still insists on walking to her Capitol Hill office every morning, even though the ten minute walk now takes her 30 minutes. And even though Tim offers – every morning – to drop her off on his way to TMU. He loves that Lyla still insists on showing up, at least once a week – candy bar in hand – to watch a football practice (and that seeing her there, in the stands, brings him back to every game in high school and in college when he would restlessly scan the crowd until he found her; he always did). He loves that Lyla insists that pregnancy has Not. Changed. Her. At. All. Even though it has changed everything about her. About them.
"Right," Tim nods. "I'll – my cell will be on if you need me. If you need anything. Okay?"
"I'm fine, Tim," Lyla narrows her eyes. "Go, please. My dad'll be home any minute to hover. I mean, we really should've stayed in a hotel," she continues. "There's just not enough space here – doesn't it feel like this place has gotten smaller since the last time we came home?"
Tim raises an eyebrow, amused. He doesn't reply.
"Shut up," she grins at him. "I'm serious. What was I thinking? Staying with Dad. He's not staying with us after she's born. Don't you dare let him talk you into that on the golf course tomorrow," she warns. "I know how he is – he'll be all, 'Son, don't you think it would be a great idea if I came to stay with y'all for a while after my grandbaby is born?' He'll be finding new ways to ask you every day we're here, plying you with beers. And golf. Maybe a little football talk – 'TMU's lookin' real fine for the BCS this year, Tim; when're they gonna make you head coach?'" she mimics her father. "When I'm out of earshot. For the whole week, mark my words," she wags a finger toward Tim. "He's too crafty to ask me."
Tim laughs. "Okay, first of all, TMU is lookin' pretty good for the BCS this year, and I think I deserve some credit for that," he grins. "Also, I'm pretty sure – given the situation between him and your mom – that he's not gonna want to come stay with us."
"He doesn't know that she's coming to Austin for the delivery. Come to think of it, he probably thinks that he's coming to Austin for the delivery," her eyes widen and her voice rises. "He probably thinks that he's entitled to be in the delivery room."
"Believe me, Garrity, he's not gonna want to be in the delivery room."
"So you say," Lyla says through a mouthful of ice cream. "I'm serious, Tim, do not let him use this week to coerce us into some kind of longterm visit."
"Got it. No longterm visits from your dad."
"Good then," Lyla nods. Resolutely. Like her work here is done.
Tim laughs. He kneels in front of her and takes the bowl of ice cream out of her hands, placing it on the table next to her. He takes her hands into his. "I love you, Garrity."
Lyla smiles at him. To Tim, that smile makes everything worthwhile. Still. He loves this woman. (And she'll always be "Garrity" to him even though, technically, she's been a "Riggins" for some time now.) Tim puts a hand on her belly. "I love you, little lady," he whispers to her belly, as Lyla's hand covers his. His girls. "Also, tell your mom to behave. And to go to bed early."
"And tell your dad to bring home some more ice cream," Lyla whispers to her belly, her eyes sparkling mischievously, as she squeezes Tim's hand. "I think we're running low."
Tim grins up at her, before rising and kissing her cheek. "Will do," he whispers into her ear, before turning to go.
"I love you, too," she calls after him as he heads out the door. "Vanilla would be good. Oh, and some godparents for our baby, please."
Jason. "You cut off your hair," he looks up at the young man as he approaches his table.
Tim nods and sits down. "It was gettin' kind of old."
"You mean, you were gettin' kind of old?" Jason Street laughs. It's a somber laugh. Bittersweet. "It's okay, the new 'do."
"Thanks," Tim gives him a slight smile. "Good to see you, Streeter," he leans back in the booth. "How are you?"
"Okay," Jason replies. Automatically. "Good. You?"
"Fine," Tim eyes him curiously. "Haven't seen you in a long time."
"Two years," Jason replies. Slowly. "I know. It's been – things have been – I can't believe it's been two years since I've been home."
"I'm glad you are," Tim says.
Jason hears the genuine warmth in Tim's voice. It makes him uncomfortable – he doesn't know why. It's as if Tim still sees him as someone – someone who he's not anymore. Someone Tim is close to. But Tim doesn't know anything about his life now, does he?
"Is this our old booth?" Jason asks. Suddenly. He looks around. "Seriously, does nothing ever change around here?" his tone takes on an edge. It's the kind of edge that accompanies guys who grew up in a small town and move far, far away, only to return and realize how small this town still is.
"Guess not," Tim shrugs. Tim watches him. He doesn't react to Jason's sudden change in demeanor.
Jason looks down at his hands. He doesn't belong here. Why did he come home? Why did he ask Tim to meet him here? Why does it seem like, after all this time, Tim can still see right through him?
Jason runs a hand through his hair. When he sees the waitress approach, he breaks into a smile. The patented Jason Street charm. He can talk to anyone, anywhere, anytime. The perks of being a sports agent. Having to make small talk with a bunch of assholes. And being able to convince them you care.
"This place. . . ." Jason trails off as he watches their waitress walk away. "I don't know," he smiles, shaking his head.
"Think we can still get free shit for being former Dillon Panthers?"
"State Champions 2006," Jason laughs, raising a water glass.
"Texas forever," Tim grins.
"Think anyone actually remembers us?" Jason asks.
"I don't know," Tim smiles. He pauses. "Do you remember us?"
"What's that supposed to mean?" Jason snaps. He feels the warmth rise in his cheeks, feels himself getting defensive. Stop it. Who are you right now? It's just Riggs. He's supposed to be your best friend. On your side. Remember?
"I'm sorry," Tim says immediately. "Forget it." He looks down at the table. They sit in silence for a minute.
Finally, Tim speaks again. "How's Noah?"
"Noah's great," Jason's voice reflects a deep love for his son. "He's . . . you should see him – he's a hell-raiser, that kid. He's my life. You know?"
Tim smiles. Jason can see that Tim is hesitant, like he senses something is off. Am I that transparent?
"Kids," Jason says quietly. "You have no clue how much you can love something until . . . He's everything to me . . . ." he trails off.
"It's been so long," Tim says quietly. Then he grins at Jason. "How the hell am I supposed to give that kid my life lessons if I never see him?"
"Yeah, I'm keepin' him far, far away from Tim Riggins' life lessons, thank you very much," Jason laughs. Genuinely. He relaxes slightly. "I'm thinkin' Christmas. I'd like to bring him out here for Christmas if I can."
"That would be great, Six," Tim smiles. "Really great." He pauses. "And how's Erin?" he finally asks. Slowly. Cautiously.
"She's . . . good," Jason replies. "Good. Things are . . . I mean, things are . . . she's not – we're not . . . things aren't great." Jason looks down at the table. The buoyancy he felt a minute ago dissipates.
Jason glances back up at Tim, who's watching him. Tim is silent. Of course. Tim is always silent when it comes to hard emotional truths. He's the kid who never fucking grew up. What was I thinking coming back here?
"We're splitting up," Jason finally says. Flatly.
"I'm sorry, Six," Tim says.
"Right," Jason mutters.
Tim swallows. Hard. "Can I – is there anything I can do . . . .?"
"Yeah Tim," Jason looks up at him. "Sure. Can you find a time machine and explain to my 19-year-old self how to avoid knocking up a 20-year-old waitress I don't know? I mean, seriously, you screwed every woman in Dillon and somehow – miraculously – managed not to get anyone pregnant," he mutters.
Tim doesn't reply. His face reveals nothing.
Jason sighs. "Whatever," he shakes his head. "Look, it's – I'm going through a tough time – I'm – things are hard right now."
"What happened?" Tim asks. Quietly.
Jason looks down at the table. He picks up a fork and runs his fingers over the tongs. "Who knows? Life." He puts down the fork and rubs his face with his hands. "I was thinkin' we should have another kid, and she was thinkin' she should take the one we have and get the hell out of Dodge," he laughs. Bitterly.
"What are you gonna do?"
Jason shrugs. "Leave, I guess. What choice do I have?"
"You could – you could stay and fight. For your kid. For your marriage. You could stay and fight."
Jason stares at Tim. "What would you know about that, Tim? You've never had to fight for anything in your whole life."
Tim looks away. He falls silent.
"We've been goin' to counseling for eight months," Jason mutters. "Eight months already. I think I've stayed and fought the good fight."
"Eight months?" Tim raises an eyebrow.
"Yeah, it's not the sort of thing you put in your Christmas card," Jason smiles. Coldly.
"Right," Tim nods.
They sit in silence for a minute as they watch their waitress approach and deposit their burgers and fries. In return, she gets Jason's winning smile. The public one. The one that doesn't remotely reveal how shitty he feels right now.
"Thanks," Jason tells her sweetly. He watches her walk away, before looking back at Tim. "So," he says brightly – too brightly – "Erin and me? Done. And how's Lyla?"
Tim hesitates. "Okay," he finally says.
"What?" Jason asks.
"What?" Tim asks.
"What are you not telling me?" Jason narrows his eyes.
"Nothin'," Tim mutters, picking up a french fry. "Lyla's fine." He pops it into his mouth.
"And?" Jason asks. "What? Are you two . . . ." he trails off and glances at Tim's left hand. It's still there. A wide flat platinum band on his ring finger. Jason instinctively touches his own ring. Cold. Solid. Tim was his best man. He will never forget that day. Erin on that day. She was glowing. Jason thinks that he probably was, too.
"No," Tim realizes what Jason is asking. "No," he says again. "Not that." He pauses. "We're having a baby," Tim mutters and takes a huge bite out of his burger.
"Lyla's pregnant?" Jason asks. He wasn't expecting that. He doesn't know why. He should have been expecting it. How long have they been married now? How long have they been together? Why does he feel deflated?
"Yeah," Tim nods, setting his burger down onto his plate.
"Congratulations," Jason says. Softly. He doesn't know how to feel right now. Happy? Sad? Joyful? Angry? What kind of a shitty best friend is he right now?
"Congratulations," he says again. More convincingly.
"Thanks," Tim says. "Bad timing," he looks down at his plate.
"Don't say that," Jason says immediately. Harshly. "You're my best friend. You and Lyla . . . ." He hears himself speaking and doesn't recognize his voice. He shakes his head, willing himself to act as Tim had acted all those years ago when he had learned about Jason and Erin. Happy. Jason's not sure he remembers what that feels like. It's been a while.
He tries again. "I'm really happy for you, Riggs. For you and Lyla."
Tim looks up at Jason and nods. "Thanks. I wanted – we wanted to tell you – but when you said you were coming home, I thought . . . ." he trails off. "To tell you the truth, I'm not sure what I thought. We wanted you and Erin – you, I mean – to be . . . ."
"Godparents," Jason finished for him.
"Right," Tim mutters.
Jason smiles at Tim across the table. This is his best friend. The guy who accompanied him to Mexico when he went off in search for his miracle cure. Escorted him to New Jersey to land his dream job and claim his now-wife. Who pushed him to fight for her, for his kid, for their future. To follow his dreams, even though those dreams ultimately led him to the other side of the country. Which, for Tim Riggins, may as well have been the other side of the world.
Jason swallows. "Are you kidding me, Timmy? I'd be honored." Of course.
Jason sees the relief etched across Tim's face as they look at each other across the table. Many years may have passed, but as Jason watches his best friend across the table, he knows that this booth – this place – isn't the only thing that hasn't changed in the time he's been gone. This friendship, this bond, the history that ties them together – that's forever. That won't change.