Love You More(8)

Gus skidded to the front door, eyes wide. “Look who it is!” my dad said. “Mick O’Leary. In the flesh!”

“Can you sign my football?” Gus asked.

My mom suddenly appeared at my shoulder. I gave her a pleading look.

She caught it immediately. “Rich,” she said firmly, touching his arm. “Why don’t we take Gus over to the mall?”

My dad took the hint.

“Good idea,” he said, then looked at Gus. “Autographs next time. Get your shoes on, buddy.”

I mouthed “thank you” to my mom. She smiled and nodded.

As soon as the door closed behind them, I breathed a sigh of relief.

Mick and I headed to the kitchen. My mom had tidied the table and prepared a plate of her famous nachos, still warm.

“Help yourself,” I said.

Mick slid into Gus’s chair and ate a loaded chip. “These are delicious,” he said. “Did you make them?”

“Ha. No. My mom did.”

“Can you cook?”

“Only if Pop-Tarts count.” I laughed. “Can you?”

“I’m good on the grill,” he said. “And my chocolate chip pancakes are no joke.”

I smiled, then offered him a drink. “Water, Coke, orange juice?”

“Water’s good,” he said.

I poured two glasses from the jug in the fridge, then joined him at the table, where I’d already laid out my notebook, calculator, and several sharpened pencils.

“I was thinking we could do practice problems from each unit,” I said, flipping to a tabbed page.

He leaned forward, nodding.

“What do you need to get on the exam?” I asked, a roundabout way of asking his current grade.

“I just want to pass.”

I rolled my eyes. “Come on. Passing is not the goal here. Colleges care a lot about math.”

He made a face.

“They do!”

“I guess. But I don’t know if I want to go to college.”

I stared at him, shocked. “Seriously? I thought for sure you’d want to play college football?”

“Nah. I’m not that good—at least not for D1.”

“So you don’t want to go at all?”

I knew college wasn’t for everyone, but Mick was clearly book smart, taking all honors classes. It didn’t add up.

“I might go. But I’ll probably just go work with my dad at the orchard.”

“You can still do that after college,” I said. “But don’t you want the options that a degree would give you?”

He looked at me—really looked at me—then nodded. “Maybe,” he said. “So, Wilhelmina, where do you want to go to college?”

“Whatever gives me the best chance at medical school. My dream school is Yale. But I doubt I’d get accepted, and I don’t think my parents can afford it anyway. So I’ll probably go to Wisconsin. Assuming I get in.”

He nodded. “What kind of doctor do you want to be?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a surgeon.”

“That doesn’t freak you out? Slicing someone open?”

“Not really. Blood has never bothered me.”

“Wow,” he said. “You’re really impressive.”

I shook my head and looked down at my notebook. “Not at all,” I mumbled, feeling his eyes on me.

“Yes, you are,” he said. “Maybe some of your ambition will rub off on me.”

I met his eyes and smiled, hoping my face wasn’t as red as it felt.



* * *



— Later that evening, Erin called to get the scoop.

“How did it go? Did he kiss you? Hold your hand? Stare into your eyes?”

“No, no, and no.”

“So what happened?”

“We studied and ate nachos. That’s pretty much it.”

“Billie. Ugh. You are the worst narrator.”

I smiled into the phone. “Okay. How about this? He told me he’s not sure if he wants to go to college.”

“That’s interesting. Can you see yourself marrying someone who didn’t go to college?”

“Don’t you think you’re jumping the gun a little?”

“It could happen.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I said with a laugh.

But later, lying in bed, I found myself dreaming of a wildly farfetched happily ever after.



* * *



— Later that week, it was the opening night for Footloose. The auditorium buzzed with the kind of small-town excitement usually reserved for Friday night football. Programs fluttered in the crowd, hairspray and perfume drifted from the wings.

When the curtain rose, Erin bounded onstage as Urleen, plaid skirt swishing, her voice sharp and sassy as she lobbed one-liners at Ariel. At one point she cocked her hip, rolled her eyes, and drawled, “Girl, you are playin’ with fire.” The audience laughed, and pride bloomed in my chest.

As the show ended, I glanced across the rows and spotted Mick. He was sitting near the aisle, shoulders hunched, hands clasped loosely between his knees. A second later, he looked over at me and gave me a thumbs-up. My stomach flipped. Had he come to see Erin—or me? I pushed the thought down and joined the applause.