“He looks a bit flashy,” Mom says as she leans back, balancing her wineglass on her knee. “What’s that, a designer suit?”
“I think he looks nice,” Aunt Nicole says diplomatically.
Mom takes a deep sip of wine as she watches the camera pan over James and the other finalists. “Not exactly our kind, Nicole.”
James is wearing a deep blue suit with a white shirt and a slim purple tie. It is designer—I know because Izzy told me, matter of fact, over FaceTime—but he wears it so naturally it doesn’t feel out of place. I suppose to him it is natural; he always grew up with plenty of money. The cost of a suit like that would keep my mom and I afloat for months.
Mom glances at me. “Of course, he can buy whatever he wants. Got you that fancy new camera.”
I don’t point out it was to replace the one she ruined because it would just make this evening more tense. This night is terrible every single year, but ever since the last time my dad tried to sniff around, back in my freshman year of college, it’s been extra shitty. I can’t help if Mom’s hoping against hope that something will change, or just wallowing in the fact it never will. Regardless, it marks the date we became a family of two, and at the end of the day, this is where I need to be.
By the time they introduce James, I’m shaking a little. They show a highlight reel of his best plays so far—some from LSU, but a fair amount from McKee, too. They compare him to his father and other quarterbacks who have won the award. They do the same for the other finalists too, the quarterback from Alabama, a defensive end from Michigan, and a wide receiver from Auburn.
And then they finally announce the winner.
It’s James.
I distantly hear Aunt Nicole’s whoop and Uncle Brian’s clapping. I definitely hear Mom’s snort as she gets up. My eyes blur with tears as I clap my hand over my mouth to cover my gasp. He walks onstage, the biggest smile I’ve ever seen from him on his face, and accepts the trophy with a handshake. He looks perfect. Handsome and confident and every bit the prodigal son the football world is expecting. When the clapping quiets, he just stares down at the trophy for a long moment before clearing his throat.
“I don’t know where to begin,” he admits, and the crowd indulges him with kind laughter.
From the kitchen, I hear a smash. Broken glass.
I shoot to my feet before Aunt Nicole can. Mom is in the kitchen, leaning over the sink. Shards of glass litter it, still dripping with red wine, but I zero in instantly on the blood running down her palm.
“Mom?” I can’t keep the crack of fear out of my voice.
She looks at me with tears running down her cheeks. Her mascara, which was messy to begin with, is smudged. She winces as she pulls a piece of glass out of her palm.
“Jesus.” I hurry over and grab a dishcloth, wrapping her hand in it and pressing down. She surprises me by pulling me into a fierce hug.
She hasn’t hugged me like this, cheek to cheek, in a while.
“Bex,” she whispers. “Sweetheart.”
“Mom,” I murmur back, rubbing my cheek against hers. “What did you do?”
“I slipped.”
I’m sure that’s a lie, but I don’t call her out on it. I pull back instead and start to pick the pieces of glass out of the sink. She crowds close. “Sweetie. Look at me.”
I pick out a couple more pieces, setting them on a paper towel.
“He’s going to leave you.”
I blink hard, keeping my attention on the sink. “That so? What, you have a crystal ball?”
“No, but he’s a man, and men leave.”
“Uncle Brian is right outside with his wife. Your sister.”
“Men like the ones we want,” she says, her voice low and insistent. “Look at him, baby girl. Do you really think you’ll be able to compete with all the women he’ll meet the second he steps out in his new uniform? There’s a reason men like him marry models. Who do you think you are, Gisele fucking Bündchen?” She laughs, a bitter sound that echoes in the quiet kitchen. “You might have his attention now, but you’re just another slut to him. He’ll cheat just like the rest of them. Like Darryl. Like your father.”
I grit my teeth. “You don’t know him.”
She glances back in the direction of the living room. The television is still going, but it sounds like my aunt and uncle are watching a game show now.
“I know enough,” she says. “A man with a smile like that? He’s a shark, and you’re a convenient bit of prey. I’m just trying to protect you for when he chews you up and spits you back out, honey.”
I’ve never hated my mother. I’ve resented her inability to move on, and whatever sickness keeps her in a cycle of unhealthy coping mechanisms. I’ve felt sorry for her. I’ve wanted to shake her, scream in her face, do whatever it took to bring back the version of her I remember from when I was a little girl. The Abby Wood she used to be, back when she experimented with pie flavors for the diner and danced in the living room for no reason at all and walked me back and forth from school every single day. The Abby Wood who encouraged me to take pictures of everything I saw with the cheap disposables she bought me from the drug store.
But in this moment, I think those three words for the first time.
I hate you.
I hate her and who she’s become. I hate having to clean up her messes. I hate the promise she roped me into at fifteen that I would always protect the business she built with Dad. I hate watching her wither into a shell of a person who can say such shitty things to her daughter’s face and call it caring.
But most of all, I hate that she’s right.
It doesn’t matter what city James ends up in. He could be in San Francisco or Philadelphia or anywhere else, and the outcome will be the same. He’ll meet a girl, he’ll fall in love with her, and he’ll forget that he ever had anything to do with me. And me? I’ll be here, living the same life I always have.
Right now, he’s exactly where he’s meant to be. And the problem is, I am too.
30
JAMES
I jump in place, my cleats hitting the frozen ground with a little more force each time. My breath comes out like the steam escaping from the top of my coffee mug. We had snow last night, and because football doesn’t stop for anything short of an electrical storm, we’re out like usual, warming up for practice. The only thing that dragged me out of bed this morning was the thought of seeing Bex, who promised she’d stop by the practice to work on her live action photography.
“Bit different from the Bayou!” Demarius calls to me as he runs by, a shit-eating grin on his face. “You’re looking like a popsicle, man!”
Fletch jogs over and hits him in the arm. “He’s not actually from Louisiana, dumbass.”
“No, he’s right,” I say glumly. “I forgot how much it sucks to play in the snow.”
“Why the hell aren’t you running laps?” Coach Gomez calls as he walks over to the field. “Hustle, gentlemen! You’re not going to warm up just standing there with your thumbs up your asses!”
I peel off my coat, setting it down on a bench. I don’t wear gloves when I throw, I’ve always preferred the grip I get with my fingertips, but today has me wishing I did, just for the excuse to wear an extra layer. At least I have on leggings underneath my shorts, and a long-sleeved compression shirt on underneath my t-shirt. What the fuck kind of temperature is this? Long Island gets cold, and sure, it snows, but with water on all sides, it’s usually not as frigid as other parts of the Northeast.