“Yeah, well, I’m an asshole, remember?”
“Or so you want the world to think.”
Her words weren’t sharp, but they hit me like a dart all the same. I didn’t want to analyze how it felt that Mary possibly saw past the cocksure attitude to the real me.
She sighed. “I could have called my parents, but to do so would mean submitting myself to long, tear-filled lectures from my mom about how I’m wasting my life and good fortune.”
I was still a bit shaken by her previous comment, but I blinked it away. “Why would she say that?”
“Because I’m pursuing a career as a tattoo artist instead of an acquisitions manager like my dad and older brother.”
I let out a low whistle, pulling the plantains from the oil to work on flattening them with the tostonera my mom gave me when she moved me to NBU my freshman year. She considered it an essential. I didn’t disagree.
“So you’re rich rich, huh?”
“My parents are,” she corrected.
“Does your dad feel the same way?”
“Kind of?” she answered with a sigh. Her sketch was taking shape now — two faces facing opposite directions but connected by the dark lines that made them. “He isn’t as vocal as my mom, and I think he wants to try to support me. But I also think he secretly hopes it’s a phase I’ll grow out of.”
I nodded. “That must be hard.”
She paused over the nose of one of the faces, glancing up at me. “I could say the same for you.”
“Me?”
Mary nodded. “I’m sure you feel pressure from your dad to follow in his footsteps, too.”
“How do you know about my dad?”
Her mouth parted like I’d caught her red-handed in a burglary, but then she waved her hand over the page. “Come on, everyone knows Nick Parkinson.”
“Everyone who follows football, yeah,” I said, placing the plantains back in the oil to fry once they were flattened. “I just didn’t peg you for one of those people.”
She wrinkled her nose, focused on her drawing again. “I’m not, trust me. I hate football.”
“That’s just because you haven’t played.”
Mary cocked a brow at me.
“When these are done, I’ll show you,” I said, nodding to the pan.
She just shrugged, watching where her fingers sketched.
“I love football so much that it doesn’t feel like pressure, really,” I said after a moment. “It did when I was younger, but now, I feel like I have my own path.”
“What changed?”
“I came to NBU instead of going to his alma mater in Alabama.”
Mary paused at that, silence washing over us.
“You didn’t want to go where he went?”
“No,” I said with a heavy breath. “But I also didn’t want to disappoint him. He loved his school, but I grew up here in Boston. We had Southern Alabama on the TV every Saturday when I was at his house, but Mom took me to my first college game, and it was NBU. It was one of those perfect fall days, you know? Cloudy and gray, cool with a breeze that rustled the leaves. I fell in love.” I shrugged. “I just didn’t know how to tell my dad that.”
“What finally gave you the courage?”
My chest nearly caved in on itself. “Wise words from a friend,” I said, almost whispering.
I dropped the conversation there, shaking off the memory as I plated the tostones for each of us, along with a side of the garlic sauce. I carried them into the living room, and Mary abandoned her sketchbook, plopping down next to me on the couch.
She was wearing leggings, thank the fucking Lord.
“De la panza sale la danza,” I said, setting up the feast on the coffee table.
Mary tilted her head. “Did you just curse me out?”
“No.” I chuckled. “It’s just something my mom would say before we ate sometimes. From the stomach comes the dance. It basically means eat up to grow strong, or like…” I considered how to translate it. “You gotta eat well to live well.”
“That explains why I’m a terrible dancer,” Mary mused with a smile. “All the Easy Mac I’ve been eating.”
“Still hot,” I warned as she picked up a golden morsel, but she didn’t seem to care as she skipped the sauce altogether and popped it into her mouth. Her eyes rolled back, a deep moan coming from her that made me grab a pillow and pull it into my lap. I pretended it was to use it as a table for my plate.
“Good, huh?” I teased.
“Sofuckinggood,” she said around a mouthful.
“Try the sauce.”
She did, and that damn moan broke through again.
“Your mom taught you how to make these?” she asked.
I nodded.
“She’s an angel. Please thank her from this starving artist.” She dipped another plantain before looking at me. “And thank you, too.”
I crooked a smile. “Anytime.”
I could have watched her all night with that happy glow on her face as she ate my cooking, but I had a mission.
“Alright,” I said, wiping my hands on my pants before I switched the TV over to Xbox and cued up Madden. “Eat up, and then I’m going to make you love football.”
Mary
I was almost uncomfortably full from the ghastly amount of tostones I had shoveled down, but it didn’t stop me from jumping up and doing a little dance when I kicked Leo’s ass at his own game.
“Suck it, bitch!” I said, flipping him off with both hands before I did a little hip wiggle and spin.
He barked out a laugh, tossing his controller down on the coffee table before he sat back on the couch and ran a hand through his hair. “Well, your attitude toward football changed quickly.”
“Football still sucks,” I argued, plopping down next to him. I crossed my legs and tucked my feet underneath me. “But it makes me happy to know there’s something else I can beat you in.”
“What’s the first thing?”
“Halo, obviously. Also just being a decent human being.”
I said it as a joke, but Leo’s smile slipped, and he cleared his throat, gathering our empty plates. “Yeah, doesn’t take much.”
He took our plates into the kitchen before I could say anything, and I internally cursed.
“I was just kidding,” I said when he came back, and I noted how he sat a little farther away this time.
I almost apologized, but then I remembered that he was an asshole who deserved to have his eyes opened to what a dick he’d been to me and to many other women in his life.
Then again, the way he’d been with me the last few weeks since I’d moved in, how he’d offered me a place to stay in the first place… it refuted the beliefs I’d had about him. He’d made sure I had somewhere to go. He’d done his best to make it comfortable for me here. He’d asked about my first skin, about my family…
He’d cooked for me.
I swallowed, the apology forming on my tongue when I looked at him and found this numb sort of expression on his face.
“No, you weren’t,” he said before I could get it out. “And I don’t blame you for thinking that about me. You’re far from the only one.”