One Sunday morning, before our three-year-old son came barreling into our room like he does every single morning, my wife and I were lying in bed enjoying a rare moment of quiet. She was in an especially good mood because, for once, our son had slept through the night and neither of us had to stumble down the hallway half-asleep to tuck him back in during the early morning hours. She rolled over, smiled at me, and I asked, “Why are you so cheerful this morning? Is it because you get to wake up next to your best friend?” She smiled back and said, “Yeah… something like that,” with that adorable smirk she does so well. I looked at her and said, “I wonder what that feels like. My best friend lives in Seattle.”
Taylor Fry—my best friend since sixth grade—lives in Seattle, Washington. Well, technically just outside of Seattle, in a small town where they filmed Twin Peaks, but that’s beside the point. We grew up in southern Ohio, in Chillicothe to be exact. From junior high through high school, we were inseparable. We went through more together than I could ever list, but the short version is this: we got each other through everything. At school, people referred to us as “Jaylor.” For the record, my first name is Jay. My own mother was convinced we were gay. I know this because she told me—directly to my face—while we were eating at a Max and Erma’s restaurant. It led to an incredibly uncomfortable lunch for everyone within earshot as I loudly yelled, “I’M NOT GAY, MOM!”
After high school, Taylor moved to Florida while I stayed in Ohio to play college baseball. Life moves forward whether you want it to or not. Things change, paths split, but somehow our friendship stayed exactly the same—just separated by a few hundred miles. My parents eventually moved to Florida as well, and a few years later I followed. Taylor met an amazing woman named Hannah, and together they made the decision to move to Seattle to advance their careers. I had finally gotten my best friend back nearby, and now he was moving as far away as possible while still staying in the continental United States. Still, I knew we’d be fine. We had already survived long distance before. Okay… maybe my mom had a point.
Around that same time, I met someone who changed everything—Candace. She was different from anyone I had ever known. I’m colorblind—no pun intended—but meeting Candace is what I imagine waking up and suddenly seeing color would feel like. She completely shifted my perspective on life. Taylor still held a huge piece of my heart, but I knew my life was never going to be the same.
Taylor and Hannah married in a small ceremony in Seattle. Candace and I got married in 2012, just before moving to Missouri so I could finish college. We were the best man at each other’s weddings. At my wedding, Taylor told a beautiful story about two people who loved each other deeply and were perfect for one another. It was about us… not my wife. Alright, Mom. I get it now.
Less than a month into marriage, Candace and I bought an SUV, packed a U-Haul, and headed to Missouri—knowing no one, relying only on each other. I was in grad school, and she was finishing her bachelor’s degree while playing softball. Early on, I got a D on my first graduate-level exam and spiraled. I was embarrassed and terrified I’d fail out entirely. Candace didn’t let me stay there. She told me it would be okay, but also made it clear that complaining wouldn’t fix anything. She told me to get my nose back in the books. She loved me, held me accountable, and believed in me. She reminded me that my Master’s degree wasn’t just for me—it was for us. That’s when I realized there was no longer a “me.” It was always going to be “us.” In 2014, I graduated with my Master’s in Applied Health and Sports Sciences, finishing with a 3.8 GPA. I can still feel that kick in the ass.
We moved back to Florida, married for two years, and I accepted my first real job as a Sports Information Director at a small college. It was miserable. My boss made my life hell. I didn’t know any better and assumed this was just how work was supposed to feel. Candace comforted me every night in our tiny one-bedroom apartment. Some mornings I threw up before work from anxiety, but I went anyway—for us.
In February, she told me we were adding another player to our roster. We were having a baby. Reality hit hard. I was working nearly 70 hours a week and drowning. My boss and I agreed to revisit things in a couple of weeks. The very next day, while I was at the airport with the women’s basketball team, I got an email asking for my resignation. That moment, I trusted my faith and submitted my resignation, effective July 1. Then came the hardest question—how do I tell my pregnant wife?
About a month later, I told her everything during a drive to the beach. She cried. It was the first time I had ever made her cry tears that weren’t from joy, and it broke me. After days and several conversations with her mom, she asked me, “Now what? What’s next for us?”
July came. No job. Thirty applications, five interviews—nothing. My insurance expired, but somehow our dog was still covered. Her grandparents let us live rent-free in a trashed rental next door if I cleaned it up. So there I was—jobless, broke, with a six-month pregnant wife working part-time at a grocery store. Somehow, Candace never once made me feel small. She was incredible when I was at my lowest.
Every day, I stayed positive and worked on the house. In two days, I hauled 2,500 pounds of trash to the dump. Candace came home each night, proud of me, lifting me up when I felt like nothing. I didn’t understand how she could still be proud—but she was.
In August, nearly eight months pregnant, I had my second interview for my dream job—head softball coach at Lake-Sumter State College. Forty-five minutes from both our families. That night, they offered me the job. I cried. I held my wife. Later, I checked my bank account—$125 left.
On October 1, our son’s due date, Candace went into labor fast. Sixty-one minutes after walking into the ER, Beckett William Miller was born—8.3 pounds, 20 inches, bright red hair. No epidural. No meds. She was incredible. I passed out when asked to cut the cord.
Watching Candace become a mother changed everything. She breastfed our son and donated milk to another family. She just knew. I followed her lead.
Before Beckett turned one, we bought a house near her parents. For my 30th birthday, she surprised me with my best friend flying in from Seattle. I cried in his arms.
So now, when I tell my wife my best friend lives in Seattle, I always explain: Taylor is my best friend—but Candace is my world.
And just then, we hear our son’s footsteps racing down the hallway.
Before he bursts in, I kiss my wife.
Now, when couples say they’re best friends, I just smile and say, “My best friend lives in Seattle,” and give her a wink.
