“Jeez, am I glad I invited you. Life of the party right here, folks.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I want to.”
“You can’t. You’ve got the best heart of anyone I’ve ever met,” I say, pulling her to me despite her protest. She gives way in my arms and rests her head on my chest.
“I’m so sorry, Lance. I’m so sorry. This has got to be so hard on your family.”
“We’re making it through. It’s going to be okay. You told me, I’ll be drafted, right?”
“Right.”
“And if I don’t, I’ll be a rich as fuck boxer.”
“Exactly.”
“That means better medical care and fixing this place up. Hiring help. Letting Trevor be a kid. Getting Mom a nurse to help her out when it gets hard. And a motorcycle for me.”
“Gotta be something in it for you, huh?” She sniffs.
“Well, I am the one who’s gonna have to ice my knees for the next ten to fifteen years.”
“You say I have a good heart. Look what you’re doing. What you’ve been taking on. It’s like I read the story in seconds without being told.” She sniffs again, and I tip her chin up so I can see her eyes.
“Tenderhearted thing, aren’t you?”
She blows out a stuttered breath. “Any ailment, any illness like that, when I see it in person, I just lose it. And the fact that it’s you, your dad. God, I just can’t imagine. My whole life is about movement, Lance. I can’t imagine not being able to dance, to move when I will myself to. It’s my worst fear.”
“I get it. I think it’s mine too. The more I see him, the more I realize how lucky I am.”
“I’m sorry,” she crumbles again.
I hold her tightly to me. “It’s okay, baby, it’s going to be okay.”
“I know, I mean it’s horrible, but that’s not why I can’t stop crying.”
“Then, why are you crying?”
“Because I fell in love with you, Lance Prescott, and I’m not quite sure it was the best move to make on my part.”
That statement zings through my chest, lighting me up in a way I’ve never imagined possible, and I do the only thing that comes naturally. I laugh. I throw my head back, and I laugh hard until small fists pummel me.
“You. Total. Asshole.”
“I’m sorry,” I chuckle. “God, I’m sorry. It’s not that I think it’s funny.”
“Don’t look so pleased, you smug bastard. I’m terrified.”
“Me too.”
“So not what you’re supposed to say,” she tries to mask her own smile.
“No, I mean, I feel for you too.”
“Oh, well, good. I’m glad you can pick off a ball because you’re shit at sentiment, Shakespeare.” We both crack up as she looks on at me, her eyes softening. “Hook, line, and sinker. I’m officially a sucker for your ridiculous and inadequate charms.”