“Yeah,” I said, my eyes still closed. I then spent the next ten minutes telling her all about wrestling in the national tournament and, more specifically, about the semifinal match I should have won but didn’t because of a terrible call by the referee, which was the only reason I didn’t win it all. As I told this story my voice grew softer and softer until it was barely audible, nothing more than the tinny click of two pennies in your pants pocket. I opened my eyes and studied Carolyn’s quiet face as she looked out the window. I sighed, allowing myself to remember the glory days, when I believed my life amounted to something, and I wondered which is worse: to reach the level of success I once did and then spend the rest of your life trying to replicate it, or to never know the taste of glory in the first place? Which is worse: to never do a damn thing worthy of pride or envy, to never even try and thus being spared the knowledge of defeat, or to earn a glory so great that the rest of your life is spent in pursuit of replicating that very same feeling that came all those years ago?

Carolyn was drawn back from the ruminations the darkening windows momentarily encouraged, and the way she looked at me, as though I was a man she still loved but who she had since given up on, caused my heart to break.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Sorry? For what?”

“I don’t know, I’m just sorry. I don’t understand why you stay with me.”

“Because I love you.”

“Even though I’m no goddamn good?”

“Stratton, that’s not true.”

“I’m a mess and you know it,” I said, and all of a sudden, I became terrified I was going to lose her—I was certain of it, really—and even worse than that was the insufferable belief that I couldn’t survive without her. She was all I had, and stumbling upon this truth, I grew hopelessly despondent and willing to say anything that might take that awful realization away.

“I’d marry you tomorrow, you know?” I said, and I believe I would have for the sole reason that marriage, in its simplest definition, is a relationship with the one person you can’t get rid of except via death or divorce. No matter how enraged I might become, or how many times I stormed away, I’d always have to come back to her, and she to me. I’d have sold my soul for that security.

“I don’t think we’re quite ready for that, Stratton.”

“I know, but I would. You’re all I’ve got.”