The Five Times I Met Myself (15 page)

Brock closed the yearbook and glanced around the attic for Sheila’s piece. He squinted at the small space between two sets of boxes to his right. There. Brock rose, stepped over to the boxes, reached behind them, and pulled out Sheila’s framed drawing.

Karissa asked why he kept the picture, and he had never given her a good answer. Probably because he didn’t know why. Now he did. Time to get rid of it.

He turned it over. Brock didn’t remember Sheila writing anything on the back, but it wouldn’t hurt to check. Nope. Nothing. Wait. The upper corner of the backing was torn, and he thought he saw writing underneath. He set the picture down flat on the ottoman and ripped back the paper. Bold, fluid script covered the back of the white mat. Sheila’s handwriting.

Brock blinked twice and read.

Dear Brock,

Do you want to know my silly, Disneyland, fairy-princess dream? That on our wedding day, I’ll peel back the paper and show you this note. Am I crazy? Probably. But I love you and
can’t imagine life apart. Do you feel the same? You tell me you do, but how can we really know when we’ve only just graduated from high school? I don’t know, but at the same time I do know. Don’t you? Please tell me you do too.

Please tell me when we go off to our separate colleges, the distance will only make us grow closer. Tell me that the next four years will fly by like an eagle and our spirits will carry us together during the time we’re apart. Tell me our graduation from college will be here in an instant and we’ll get married two months later on a hot July day. Tell me?

But if you’re reading this alone, and I’m not beside you, please know that this eighteen-year-old girl loved you with everything she had inside. If you have discovered what I wrote here, and I’m not beside you, I hope you are happy. I hope you’ve found someone who makes your life complete and loves you like you deserve to be loved.

And if you’re reading this years from now, decades from now, and we’re not together, maybe you’ll look me up and see what I’m doing, and what I’ve become, and you’ll tell me what you’ve become. Because once you give a person part of your heart, they have that piece forever, don’t you think?

So you have a piece of me now, and a year from now, and thirty years from now. Keep that piece of my heart safe, okay? Just like I’ll keep the piece of your heart you’ve given me safe.

All of my love, now and I so hope forever,
Sheila

Brock fell back into the chair and took in a long breath. Did she have a piece of his heart still? He didn’t need to ask the question.
Yes, she did. He’d made the right choice to break up with her, hadn’t he? There was no question he had. But if there was no question, then why was he asking it? What if he’d waited to see if she would turn her life over to the Lord? What if he’d broken up but not been so quick to rush into a relationship with Karissa? What if, what if, what if . . .

He had to stop. The only roads this type of thinking would lead him to would take him over a cliff.

“God, need your help here. Tempted to go down some pretty dangerous paths.”

But no help came.

Chapter 22

M
AY
22, 2015

T
he first e-mail Brock opened on Friday morning at the office stopped him cold.

Dear Brock,

I’ve been debating whether to e-mail you for five days. But I think I need to, so here goes.

I’m sorry. I never should have kissed you at the reunion. I don’t know what came over me, but it wasn’t right. Forgive me? Please? And yet at the same time, if I’m honest—and I need to be—I don’t regret doing it.

When I saw you again, all the emotions that we used to share came rushing back. All the memories, you know? I know you do, because I saw it in your eyes.

I’m not saying I want to see you again. That’s not fair to you and Karissa.

I guess I’m just trying to say what if. What if I’d become
a Christian earlier? How differently would our lives have turned out? If we could turn back the clock, what would my life look like now? What would ours look like? Do you think about that?

Maybe I shouldn’t have even written this e-mail to you. But now I have, and I’m thinking I’ll probably have the courage to hit send.

With love, and thoughts of what might have been,
Sheila

Brock hesitated, then deleted the e-mail. No response was the only response that made sense. In his mind at least. His heart screamed something different and images rushed into his mind that he could stop, but didn’t. Karissa divorcing him. Being alone. Seeing Sheila, just for a casual dinner, then things progressing to . . .

“Stop it!” He pushed himself away from his desk and pounded a fist into his leg.

It didn’t matter what he felt. He wouldn’t go down that what-if road, because he knew where it ended. He’d traveled over it in his mind too often since the reunion. He and Karissa would make it. So would Black Fedora.

If only he believed those things were true.

Brock spent the rest of the day going over the company’s financials again. It was hopeless. After he pushed the papers to the side and minimized the spreadsheets on his laptop, Brock pulled up ESPN on his computer to find a story on the Seahawks and the experts’ predictions on their coming season, anything to distract him.

A few clicks later he landed on a series of interviews with
ex-pro quarterbacks who were asked what they’d do differently if they could play their career over again. A few said they wouldn’t have changed anything. A couple of others mentioned investing their money more wisely, but the last QB locked Brock’s gaze on the screen.

“Honestly, I wish I could go back in time and talk to my younger self. Convince that kid to take business classes instead of majoring in doing just enough to pass. When you’re that age you think you’ll play forever.” The QB smiled. “But the good news is, I’m awake now. I’m taking classes, I’m learning those skills, but it’s too late to save for a few things I’d like to have.”

Brock closed his eyes. He had to try again to talk to his younger self about business school. Could it be more obvious? For the first time in an age, he felt hope. If the show on ESPN wasn’t a sign from God, he didn’t know what was. It was as if God was speaking to him directly through that interview, telling him that as crazy as it sounded, he had to dream again, and this time convince Young Brock to go to business school. Chance of it working? None, most likely. The idea was ludicrous, but why not try?

Up till now he’d doubted, wondered if this whole thing of talking to himself in dreams wasn’t just his brain sliding off the table of sanity, but when night came, he would lock himself into this rocket ship, follow God’s lead, and ride it into the heavens.

Brock’s cell phone interrupted his thoughts. It was Ron. Interesting timing.

“What?”

“Reminder. We sign papers this afternoon at four.”

“We need to talk about that.”

“Nothing to talk about. Please, get that through your thick skull.”

“We can’t sign, Ron.”

“Yeah we can. And we will. Today. Four.”

The line went dead. Brock buzzed Michelle.

“Do you know where Ron is?”

“Working from home today. Won’t be in till just before the signing.”

Brock snatched his keys off his desk and strode out his door. No way would he sign without taking a shot in the world of dreams.

When Ron’s wife, Shelly, opened their door twenty-five minutes later, she gave Brock a grim smile.

“Things okay between you two?” Shelly asked.

“Sure.”

“Lying doesn’t become you, Brock.”

“No, I mean, a few things aren’t great, but a few are.” He shrugged. “We’re brothers. That’s how brothers are. It always turns out okay in the end. You know how it is between us.”

“That’s what always worries me.”

“Where is he?”

“Take a wild guess.” Shelly tilted her head to the left.

Brock motioned to the side with his thumb. “I think I’ll just walk around instead of going through your house.”

“Have fun.”

Brock strolled around the side of his brother’s home, across the lush grass, and down the slight incline that led to the back of Ron’s sprawling estate. His property was just shy of ten acres—at least till the bank came and took it away—and the backyard took
up nine and a half. And of those, eight were used for three short, immaculate par-three golf holes.

The scent of freshly cut grass surrounded Brock. A hint of wind off the lake toyed with the flags. Ron waved with a golf club, then turned back to focus on the ball teed up at his feet. He drew the club back, made a full turn of his shoulders, then started slowly back down, accelerating as the club got closer to the ball. Then
thwack!
The white orb rocketed off the tee toward the green 125 yards away. Brock hadn’t seen many smoother swings than Ron’s. Ron teed up another ball as Brock reached his brother.

Ron motioned toward the ball. “Care to hit a few with me?”

“Hardly.” Brock scoffed. “Even with those lessons you bought me a few years back, I’ve never come close to figuring out this game.”

“So what? Doesn’t mean you can’t get out on the course with me. Have some fun.”

“It’s not fun.”

“What isn’t fun? Having to put a leash on your ego because I’m better than you at golf? Admitting that you’ll never, ever beat me?”

“Not now, Ron.”

His brother turned and gazed into his eyes. “I’m just saying someday I’d love to play a round of golf with you. Share the experience. Not as competitors. Just as brothers.”

“Yeah, sure. Maybe in our next life.”

Ron turned back and sighed. Then he loosened his grip for a second, regripped, and sent another TaylorMade golf ball skyward. It seemed to hang in the air longer than physics said it should, then dropped from the sky and settled fifteen yards to the right of the pin.

“Nice.”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with my swing.” Ron kicked the grass. “Everything’s headed to the right these days.”

“That wasn’t a good shot?”

Ron shook his head, a little smile playing on his lips. “I know, I should loosen up about it. But golf does that to you. That little voice in your head says, ‘I can get better’ and you’re never satisfied.”

“Why didn’t you ever try to turn pro?”

“Real pro?”

“Yeah. You’re amazingly good.”

“But not amazingly great.” Ron teed up another ball, and seconds later it soared toward the green. It stopped five yards away.

“The pros are so far beyond me. I’d get on the courses they play and maybe come away after four rounds of my best golf five over par. Meanwhile, the winning score would be sixteen or seventeen under. Plus the amateur tournaments have a purity to them that the cash tourneys don’t.”

“Like Bobby Jones.”

“Something like that.” Ron grimaced.

“We need to talk about the signing, Ron.”

Ron pointed at the three-tiered putting green dotted with eight tiny flags in the center of his spread. “Let’s talk and putt at the same time.”

They strolled the twenty yards to Ron’s putting green in silence. When they reached the fringe, Brock said, “I think I have a way to fix things.”

“We’ve been over this.”

“Give me the weekend.”

“Today. Four o’clock. We sign.”

“I have a plan that will let us keep the company. We won’t have to sell.”

“Enlighten me, then.” Ron folded his arms. “What’s the plan?”

“I can’t explain it.”

“Yes, you can.” Ron put his hands on his hips. “If I’m going to make an excuse, I want to know why I’m making it. Every delay puts more power in the buyers’ hands. And just in case you’ve forgotten, Dad gave me fifty-one percent of this company. This is not a democracy. If I have to sign without you, I will.”

“That will make things more complicated for you.”

“Which is why I’ll give you the weekend as long as you tell me your plan.”

“Trust me.” Brock eased over to the fringe of the putting green. “I truly can’t explain it.”

“Then trust me, I’m signing this afternoon.”

From Ron’s perspective, there was no reason to wait. They had a deal that would keep them from total disaster. But a ten-cents-on-the-dollar buyout wasn’t much of a solution.

Yes, waiting another day always gave room for the buyers to change their minds or decide to squeeze Black Fedora harder. But it was more about Ron lording his fifty-one percent over Brock’s head. It was about winning, just as it had always been between them.

“Okay.” Brock opened his hands in resignation. “Here’s my plan. I’m going to convince my younger self to go to business school so that when 1989 rolls around, Dad will give fifty-one percent of this company to me instead of to you. That way you never fly the Black Fedora plane into the tarmac at five hundred miles per hour, and we won’t even be having this discussion.”

“Funny.” Ron gave a mock smile. “You still on that kick that you could have run this company better than me?” Ron’s head fell back and he gave a bitter laugh. “I would like to have seen you try. We’d have been working in a bowling alley store a year after dad died if you’d taken control.”