The F-Word

“I never understood the fuss.”

I nod. “And proms. Never my thing. I mean, renting a tux? Buying a corsage? Drinking spiked punch and puking your guts up in the rented limo on the way to Lookout Point?”

“Did you? Puke in the limo?”

I laugh. “No. I made it out before it happened.”

We both laugh. Then her laughter fades. Did she not go to her prom? I don’t want to ask. Instead, I tell her that football is one of the greatest things we have in America.

It works. She gives one of those eye rolls, the kind she gave the last time we discussed the game.

“No way.”

I get what seems like a brilliant idea. “You know what?”

“What?”

“We should have something we can share. Something we can talk about in public so people will believe we spend a lot of time together.”

“For instance?”

“Football.”

Bailey looks at me like I’m crazy. “Matthew. I just told you—”

“You don’t like football. Yeah, I know. But that’s because you don’t know anything about it. And that’s what makes it perfect. I mean, I’m assuming Cousin Violet knows you don’t like football.”

“She knows,” Bailey says grimly. “Violet was a cheerleader.”

Right. Violet was a cheerleader.

“Ah. And you didn’t go to the games. Well—”

“I went,” Bailey says, even more grimly. “Attendance was mandatory. School spirit stuff. You know?”

Of course I know. Villainous Vi twirled her pompoms while my girl sat in the stands.

“Well, that’s good.”

“It is?”

“Of course.” I look around, catch our waiter’s eye and nod. He nods back and heads for our table with the check. “Violet hears you talking football with me and any possible doubts she might have about our relationship will go up in smoke.”

“They will?”

I hand the waiter my credit card. He whisks it away.

“Of course. It’s proof, if she needs it, that you and I are an item. That we’re close. I’ve got you liking football. That’s the kind of sacrifice a woman makes for a man she—a man she cares for.”

Bailey blinks. “It is?”

“It absolutely is,” I say firmly, even as I suddenly remember that my mom, who adores my dad, has never learned to like what he considers, same as me, THE American pastime.

The waiter returns my credit card.

“Thank you, sir.”

I add a tip to the bill, scrawl my name, and I’m already on my feet. I pull back Bailey’s chair even as she starts pushing back from the table.