I stifle a sigh. Arguing with him about Bex won’t lead anywhere good, so instead I say, “I was hoping she wanted to go to see that Harry Styles concert or something.”
He huffs. “Same. But you have to admit, this is the most her Izzy Day she’s ever come up with. Fifth Avenue shopping? She’ll love it.”
When we were younger, our parents turned our birthdays into fun, exclusive excursions, dubbed “James Day” or “Sebastian Day.” That’s how Cooper got to skate in Madison Square Garden during a Rangers practice for his sixteenth birthday, and how when I turned fourteen, we had the most kickass arcade day ever. When Izzy had her Sweet Sixteen, our parents took her and her friends to St. Barts for a long weekend. This year? All she’s wanted lately is to be in the city, so this isn’t surprising, but it’s going to be brutal to watch her try on dresses for six hours straight.
“Maybe she can help me pick out my suit for the Heisman ceremony. That would be productive, at least.”
“It’ll be good to spend time with her,” Coop says. “Mom was telling me that she broke up with that weird guy.”
I do a little fist pump. “Finally.”
“I know, right? He sucked.”
My excitement fades as it occurs to me that she might be heartbroken. “Did he hurt her? Do we need to go kick his ass? Shit, that was her first real boyfriend.”
“I think he was flirting with other girls, like an idiot.”
“What a prick.”
“I’d offer to go find him and beat him up, but I’m sure she has that handled.”
“She’s scrappy, I’ll give her that. I don’t envy you and Seb having to keep an eye on her next year.” I laugh. “Wait, so tell me what’s up with you. I thought I’d see you more often since we’re living together right now, but this is like when you had ice time right after I got back from practice.”
“That season sucked,” he says with a groan. “And I’ve been buried in readings. I haven’t scored a chick in weeks. It’s terrible. I’ve forgotten what pussy feels like.”
I laugh so hard I snort.
29
BEX
“Is it cool?” I say into my phone from the entryway of Aunt Nicole’s house. The December chill cuts through me, even wearing a thick sweater I stole from James, so I move away from the window. It’s flurrying outside. “Are you nervous?”
“Very cool,” James replies. Even over the line, I can’t help the little smile that crosses my face at the low tenor of his voice. “The Lincoln Center is gorgeous. Joe Burrow just congratulated me, and I think I pissed myself a bit.”
I smirk, even though he can’t see me. “He is very attractive.”
“Hey,” he says.
“Of course, not as attractive as you,” I amend. “Or Aaron Rodgers.”
“Babe, no,” he says, a horrified note in his voice.
“I don’t know, I feel like the whole Nicolas Cage dirty mountain man thing works for me. Don’t act like you don’t have celebrity crushes too, I saw that photo of Jennifer Lopez on your phone.”
“I’m hanging up.”
I giggle. “Sorry. But really, are you nervous?”
“Nope. I don’t get nervous about performing.”
“I feel like there’s a dirty joke in there,” I say. “Seriously? I’d be melting into the floor.”
“I mean, I hope I win,” he says. “But even if I don’t, it’s an honor just to be recognized.”
“Such a diplomat already.”
“Don’t you know it.” He says something to someone off the line, then comes back to say goodbye.
“Good luck,” I tell him.
His voice is soft as he replies, “Thanks, princess.”
I’m grinning like an idiot at my phone when Aunt Nicole pokes her head in to look for me. “It looks like the ceremony is going to start soon. Do you want me to heat up some queso?”
“That would be awesome.”
She squeezes my arm, leaning in a bit. “For what it’s worth, I think he’s loads cuter than Darryl.”
I wander back into the living room and settle on the couch next to my mother. She glances over at me as she takes a sip of her wine. “Which one is yours again?”
I force a smile. When James invited me to come with him and his family to the ceremony, I wanted to, of course, but ditching my mother on the anniversary of my father’s leaving was unthinkable. “You know who he is. He came to the diner after you set it on fire.”
I shouldn’t feel a grim sense of satisfaction at the way her face twists, but I can’t help myself. I’m still pissed about the fire, even though James bought me a new camera.
Aunt Nicole sets a plate of chips and dip on the table, patting my Uncle Brian’s thigh as she sits down next to him on the other couch. “Isn’t it exciting that Bex’s guy might win, Bri?”
Uncle Brian grunts out an affirmative. My uncle isn’t much of a talker, but now that I know more about football than before, we’ve been able to relate to each other. “Seen some of McKee’s games this season. He’s talented, I’ll give him that.”
I smile as I reach for a chip. “He deserves this. He’s so talented. Watching him live has been incredible, Uncle Brian, really.”
“Of course, I prefer the NFL,” he says. “College play can be very different than professional. But I think he has what it takes. Where are they saying he’ll end up, most likely? Philadelphia or San Francisco?”
“Even Philadelphia is pretty far,” Mom says. “Have you thought about that at all?”
“No,” I say, which is the truth. I’ve been trying to keep next April out of my mind as much as possible. If I think about the fact that this time next year, he’ll be living in a different city, playing on the professional level every Sunday, my stomach ties itself into knots and I can barely swallow. It’s not that I’m not excited or happy or proud. I’m all those things at once.
It’s just that it’s a future I know I don’t fit into.
Aunt Nicole turns up the television to fill in the silence. I angle myself away from my mother and focus on the show.
James keeps telling me the other three finalists are equally, if not more, talented, and that the nomination is honor enough, but I know he wants it. The Heisman is given annually to the most outstanding college football player. It’s an affirmation to the world that even what happened with Sara—even if the story that is out there isn’t the real story—isn’t slowing him down as a player. That he’s ready for this career. I can’t stop smiling every time the camera cuts to him. He looks so self-assured and confident.
I wish I was there with him now. I wish I was in the audience, waiting to cheer his name.
My phone buzzes, and I check it automatically. Ugh. Another text from Darryl. Something tells me he’s watching the same thing as me. At least when he’s reaching out digitally, I can just ignore it. When he came to The Purple Kettle during a slow moment the other day, I only managed to escape his conversation because my coworker took pity on me.