Far From Me Pt. 02

He lay there staring at her, but he was afraid to say anything. Doing so would only prove her point. Besides, he knew she was right, and he felt like fool.

Someone who barely knew him, knew nothing about his past, his background, about his family, his friends, his relationships with others, had, in a few hours' time, deftly psychoanalyzed him and, in so doing, had put her finger on the source of his neuroses -- he thought too much, and, in turn, he spent too much of time trying to analyze every situation that confronted him.

He remembered something that Paul had told him months ago. Paul said it was one of the first things he had learned about coaching. He warned him against confusing his players -- causing them to suffer what he called "paralysis by analysis."

"Don't tell them too much." That was Paul's advice. "Don't give them too many things to think about. If you do, you'll only confuse them, and that paralyzes them. When you call a timeout or talk to them at halftime, give them one, maybe two things to focus on until you get another chance to talk to them again. Don't tell them to do this, that, and five other things. Prioritize."

"Too many directions, too much explanation -- that freezes people, especially kids. Thinking prevents a person from being able to perform, which, in the case of an athlete, means he stops playing -- he's too busy thinking to play the damn game. Most of what goes on when athletes play a game is simply reacting; playing involves very little thinking. The thinking has to come beforehand, so that when the game's action is taking place, they're just reacting to it."

Irrelevantly, he thought of Colby Jacobs. He realized that maybe he'd had done what Paul was describing to Colby. On the other hand, there was very little question that he had done precisely that to himself.

He stared at her for the longest time, but didn't say anything. A million thoughts were swirling in his head -- it was his curse, and he knew there was very little he could do to stop those thoughts. Finally, Erika broke the silence, "Can ve just go to sleep? I'm tiret", she pleaded wearily.

"Sure. I guess I'm tired, too", he said quietly, timidly.

He kissed her, and she smiled. Then, Erika closed her eyes. He was exhausted, but sleep would not come. He watched her resting there -- the slight rising and falling of her chest; the soft sound of her breathing. Long after she had fallen into a gentle, restful slumber, he lie, eyes wide open, next to her -- thinking, wondering, worrying.

He and Lara needed to be on the road early -- she'd said she wanted to leave by 7:30 -- and though he had already packed, he knew they would probably have to return to their home in Monteboro before they headed out. The first part of the drive was a circuitous, winding route on narrow, mostly two-lane, country roads. It would take two hours until they reached an Interstate highway.

From Monteboro, they would get on State Route 660 headed west, then on to SR362 to Asonia, and U.S. Highway 6. Just past West Pike, they'd head north on SR449 to SR49 and eventually to SR44 until it crossed over the state line into New York. From there, it would be a few more miles until they'd hit Interstate 86 near Allegany. Then, they'd follow I-86 west until it left New York behind and crossed back into Pennsylvania. Just before Erie, they would finally reach Interstate 90, which would take them through Ohio, Indiana, and the rest of the way to Chicago. They would not reach the City of Big Shoulders until it was dark again.

They were supposed to stay at Lara's parents' house in Winnetka. He knew he would have to sleep in the guest room, and though that was understandable, that arrangement had, in the past, annoyed him slightly. Ironically, tomorrow night it promised to be a welcome respite. What would not be welcome would be the ten plus hours in the car with Lara -- ten plus hours of either uncomfortable silence or hostile confrontation. There didn't seem to be much middle ground between those two inevitabilities.

He glanced at the alarm clock on the nightstand. It was nearly 4:45. Not having slept at all, he was thoroughly exhausted, and he suspected that tomorrow he would have to do most of the driving. But there was something that worried him even more.

If Lara was still intent on leaving by 7:30, she might deliver Ingrid back to the Nagy's by 7:00 or even earlier. He'd told Erika that he was worried about Paul or Juliette discovering that they'd slept together. Now, he realized there was an even more disastrous possibility. What if Lara found him in bed with Erika? Jesus -- that would make for an incredibly dreadful drive back to Chicago! That is, if Lara would even go with him, ever speak to him again.

He couldn't let that happen. Silently, stealthily, he slipped from beneath the covers and found his clothes on the floor next to the bed. He hastily threw on his boxer briefs and undershirt, and carrying his other clothes, slowly, carefully, he turned the knob, gently pulled the creaky, old door open, and stole surreptitiously from the room, while the most beautiful woman he'd ever laid eyes on dreamt peacefully in the blue/white light. He never saw her again.