And today, now, I have the overpowering urge to get down the ideas filling my head. It’s like they’re going to split my skull if I don’t let them out. I thought for a long time that the story would be about my father. And football. Football and my dad and my life flitting between the both. Some kind of memoir I’d dedicate to him. Well, after I finished with the pros. But that story never actually took root. Me feeling like I somehow failed my dad all over again.
Because in the end, I think, the story has to be mine. And though football covers one aspect of my life—a huge one—it’s not the whole of me.
With a sideways glance, I spot Ari scrolling through her phone, her friends talking around her. A quick realization flickers above the many thoughts crowding my head.
I want to tell a different story. Maybe even live it.
As I head down the hallway toward my writing class, hesitance and resignation slow my steps. I’m not really in a hurry to get there any more.
I never thought I’d fear actually figuring it out—because ultimately, I’d just keep plodding along, the dream of what I’d do after football always just out of reach. Too far away. And I was fine with that. Until now.
13
Ari
“Oh, crap.” I’m throwing clothes around the room, angry with myself for being so out of it lately, for forgetting.
“Ari, just relax.” Vee plunks down on her bed and proceeds to peel a layer from her cinnamon roll and pop it into her mouth. My belly twists, a queasiness coating my stomach lining.
I haven’t eaten anything since lunch—and even then, I pushed aside my tray after Ryder’s invasion, having only taken a few bites of dry salad and toast. Subconsciously, I was aware of tonight, my body on high alert, even if my brain wasn’t keeping up.
“Ugh, where is it?” I’m practically growling. “I can’t believe I forgot about tonight. Why didn’t Becca call me, like she always does? She never misses a beat to wear me out.” I straighten my back and drop the hamper to the floor. Giving up, utterly. “It’s like she did it on purpose.”
“So what. Eff your stepmom.” Vee sits up, crossing her legs underneath her. “You said she was having some gown made, right? Just go on over and let her doll you up. Or”—she bounds up and comes toward me with a devilish glint in her eyes—“you could blow off the rents and go out with Ryder, instead.” She cocks her head, challenging.
“Right. Because my family wouldn’t make me pay dearly for that disgrace.”
Vee shrugs and tosses the last bite of roll into her mouth. “You only live once, A,” she says around a mouthful.
I look up at the ceiling and release a heavy breath, my constricted chest heavy. Vee’s words remind me so much of what Mel would say in this moment. Maybe it’s good advice. Maybe for once telling my father and Becca where they can stick their pretentious ways would feel damn good.
Only the knowledge of what I’d suffer during the aftermath stops me. It’s not worth the headache.
Or the fallout.
Normally, a charity function wouldn’t be so critical for my father. But with him trying to rebound his reputation from the recent tarnishing, I’m expected to support him publically. Upstanding children—who will probably marry one of their sons—matter to this crowd.
I have to be at my best.
“At least I have his number,” I say, going right for my nightstand table. I pick up my iPhone and tap the message icon. The last text I sent was to Ryder. “I’ll just tell him it’s off. For now.”
Vee groans. “He’s going to think you’re blowing him off.”
“So,” I say. “Why do we suddenly care what The Ryde thinks?” I look over at her before starting my message. I need a second to sort out what I’m going to say.
“I’m being selfish. Sorry.” She walks toward the closet. “I was hoping that maybe the next time, we could do a double or something.”
Ah, crap. “Vee…”
She waves me off from over her shoulder, brushing away my sympathy. “Gavin’s so far up Laney’s—” She cuts off, then turns to face me with a black maxi dress in her hands. “Well, he’s literally so far up her vag, that I don’t stand a chance. It’s just a dumb infatuation.”
I do think Vee’s level of interest in Gavin has gone supernova—to the point of near obsession. But I keep my mouth shut. I don’t have much room to talk. “What is that?” I nod to the dress.
“I got this for Christmas last year, but it doesn’t fit. Too small.” She shrugs, as if this fact doesn’t bother her in the least. I envy her nonchalance toward her body so hard. “I really don’t get why you’re so worried over what you’re wearing to your parents when your stepmom already has clothes—probably something gorgeous—already picked out for you. But,” she adds, crossing the room toward me, dress held out, “I have stopped trying to figure out your brain. Take it.” She shakes the hanger.
“Thanks,” I say, accepting the dress as she lays the silky material over my arm.
She smiles and then heads out to who knows where. She’s always doing that—up and leaving, after making some crucial statement. Like a bad sitcom. I laugh to myself.