Chapter 70: Jeff's Rough Patch
At the center of the field, the two coaches met for the post-game handshake.
Coach Cotton shook George's hand with the composed dignity of a man who had lost a game he'd prepared well for and wasn't going to pretend otherwise. "Congratulations on the win," he said. "Top ten — that's earned. And that number twenty of yours—" He paused, choosing his words. "With the right development, you're looking at something special."
It was the kind of compliment that acknowledged the result without conceding the argument, and George recognized it for what it was — a competitor's respect, which was the most honest kind.
"Your seventy-four isn't far behind," George said, and meant it. "Oher's going to be something when the technique catches up to the talent. I hope his shoulder heals clean."
Cotton's expression shifted into something more genuine at the mention of Oher. Whatever his feelings about the loss, his feelings about his player were uncomplicated.
"Same time next spring?" Cotton said. "Spring invitational. We pick the format, no pressure, both programs benefit."
"I'd be glad to," George said.
They shook hands again — the second handshake being the real one, the first being the ceremonial one — and Cotton walked his team off the field with the quiet, organized dignity of a program that had come up short and wasn't going to make a production of it.
George watched them go.
Top ten, he thought. First time in this school's history.
He was going to need a moment with that before he was ready to talk about spring invitationals.
On the near sideline, Mike had finished his post-game interview with Jack and was turning back toward the field when Regina appeared.
She moved through the dispersing crowd with the specific ease of someone who understood that momentum was its own kind of access — people made way without being asked, which was the point.
"Mike." She smiled the full version of the smile, the one she deployed for occasions. "Good game. Come over later? Just us."
The invitation had the warm, uncomplicated surface of something casual and the architecture underneath of something that wasn't.
Mike had been watching Regina George operate for six weeks. He knew the difference between her being warm and her being strategic, and he knew that in her particular case the two categories were not mutually exclusive — she was frequently both simultaneously, which was part of what made her interesting and the whole reason he was careful.
"I've got plans," he said. "Rain check."
"Of course." She stepped forward and pressed a brief kiss to his cheek with the easy familiarity of someone establishing a narrative for the surrounding audience rather than for him specifically. "Next time."
She pulled back with the composed smile of someone who had done what she came to do, then turned and gathered Gretchen and Karen with the specific energy of a general concluding a field visit and returning to headquarters.
Mike watched her go, then turned and found Georgie at his elbow.
"Locker room?" Georgie said.
"Locker room," Mike said.
They went.
That afternoon, Mike called Karen.
The Plastics had an event — she was apologetic about it in the specific way Karen was apologetic about things, which was genuinely and briefly and without making it a production. He told her not to worry about it and meant it.
He called Lina.
She answered on the second ring with the easy, open quality she had when she wasn't managing anything, and twenty minutes later she was at Connie's door.
Connie opened it, took one look at the situation, produced a reason she needed to run an errand that was transparently not a real errand, and was out the door with her keys and her sun hat before Mike had fully processed what had happened.
He looked at the closed door.
He looked at Lina.
Lina was trying not to smile.
"Your grandmother," she said.
"She's not actually my grandmother," Mike said.
"She absolutely acts like one," Lina said.
She came in.
Later that evening, Mike crossed the street to the Coopers' for dinner.
Mary had made a full spread — the kind of meal that happened when there was something worth celebrating and Mary wanted to mark it without making a speech about marking it. The table held enough food for eight people, which was approximately the right amount given who was likely to show up.
What Mike hadn't expected was the extra person at the end of the table.
Pastor Jeff was sitting in the corner seat with the specific quality of a man who had been in a difficult situation for several days and had run out of the energy required to look like he hadn't. His suit was wrinkled in the way suits got wrinkled when someone had been sleeping in them or adjacent to them. He was holding a handkerchief that had been doing significant work recently.
He looked, in the most straightforward possible terms, like a man who had recently experienced something and hadn't finished experiencing it.
George noticed him the moment he sat down — you couldn't really not notice him — but in the way of a man who had learned from experience to let Mary explain things when Mary had clearly been present for the context.
Mary got there first.
"Before we eat," she said, with the organized warmth of someone who had prepared for this moment, "I wanted to share some news. Susan Griffith stepped back from her church assistant position — her health, nothing serious, just time to rest — and Pastor Jeff asked me to step in." She smiled. "I'm going to be helping coordinate the community programs."
George looked at his wife with genuine pride. "That's great, Mary."
"And it explains why Jeff is—" Mary glanced at Pastor Jeff, who was examining his handkerchief. "Why Jeff is joining us tonight."
George looked at Jeff.
"Everything okay, Jeff?" he said, with the direct, friendly concern of a man who didn't believe in circling.
Pastor Jeff looked up.
His expression had the complicated quality of someone who had been asked a simple question to which the honest answer was not simple at all.
"I appreciate you having me," he said. "And congratulations on Mary's new role — she's going to be wonderful. She was remarkable at the picnic, everyone said so." He paused. "As for me—" He stopped again.
George waited.
"Serena's gone," Jeff said. He said it with the flatness of someone who had said it to himself enough times that the sentence had worn smooth. "She left three days ago. I came home and her things were packed and she—" He cleared his throat. "She said she needed to move on. That Deford wasn't the right place for her."
The table was quiet.
Missy was looking at Pastor Jeff with the focused sympathy of a nine-year-old who had decided this was a situation that called for it. Sheldon was looking at his plate with the expression of someone filing the information and reserving comment. Georgie had the decency to put his phone away.
"I'm sorry, Jeff," Mary said.
"I'm sorry too," Jeff said, with the honesty of someone who meant it more than they could currently explain.
George, who had been sitting with his elbows on the table and his hands folded, said carefully: "Did she give you any warning? Any sense that things weren't—"
"Not really," Jeff said. "In retrospect, maybe. But in the moment—" He shook his head. "She moved fast. She always moved fast. I think I was still catching up when she'd already decided."
This landed with a specific weight that Mike, sitting quietly at his end of the table, filed without expression.
Moved fast. Already decided.
That tracked.
"Well," George said, in the measured tone of a man choosing his next words with the awareness that the wrong ones would make things worse. "I know it doesn't feel like it right now, but—"
"George," Mary said.
"I wasn't going to say anything uncharitable," George said.
"I know, but maybe let Jeff have the night."
George looked at his wife. Looked at Jeff.
"Yeah," he said. "You're right." He picked up his fork. "Jeff, you're welcome here as long as you need. You know that."
Jeff managed something that was close to grateful.
"There's also the small matter of the car," Jeff said, after a moment, with the specific exhaustion of someone who has been putting off acknowledging something.
George looked at him.
"She drove the car," Jeff said. "The red convertible. We'd only had it eight months. There are fourteen more payments."
George set his fork down.
"Jeff—"
"It's fine," Jeff said, in the tone of someone for whom it was very much not fine. "It's just money."
He blew his nose.
Sheldon looked at the handkerchief with the expression of someone who had strong opinions about shared airspace.
George's good news came out after dinner, during the quieter second phase of the meal when the initial food rush had passed and people were sitting with their plates and the comfortable weight of a full table.
"The principal called me in this week," he said, with the understated quality he used when he was pleased about something and didn't want to perform it. "The program's consecutive wins — they're giving me a bump in salary. Two hundred a week more, starting next month." He paused. "And they're giving the football program its own office."
Mary put her hand over his on the table.
"That's wonderful," she said. The warmth in her voice was entirely real.
"It's something," George agreed, with the modest acknowledgment of a man who had wanted this for fifteen years and was still working out how to receive it.
The mood at the table adjusted around the news — not dramatically, just a degree lighter. Jeff made a genuine effort to be present for it, which Mike noted and respected.
After dinner, as things were winding down and Mary was beginning the quiet logistics of setting up the couch with extra blankets, Connie appeared from the kitchen with her jacket on and her keys in her hand.
She looked at Pastor Jeff, who was sitting alone at the end of the cleared table with the specific quality of a man who wasn't ready to be by himself yet but didn't have anywhere else to direct the energy.
"Jeff," she said. "Want to take a drive? You drive, I'll navigate. I know every back road in this county."
Jeff looked up.
"I'm not very good company tonight," he said.
"I didn't ask for company," Connie said pleasantly. "I asked if you wanted to drive."
Jeff looked at her for a moment.
Then, slowly, he got up.
He folded his handkerchief, put it in his pocket, and picked up his keys.
"Lead the way," he said.
Connie held the door.
They went out into the Texas evening, and the door closed behind them.
Mike, helping Mary with the last of the clearing, watched them go through the kitchen window.
He thought about what Jeff had said. She moved fast. She always moved fast.
He thought about the red dress on the hill. The hat that never came off. The temperature of the hand that had closed around his wrist.
He thought: she's gone, and Jeff is still here, and whatever she left behind in him didn't leave with her.
He dried a dish and put it in the cabinet and didn't say anything about it.
Not yet.
(End of Chapter 70)
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