Dare You to Hate Me

“If anybody gets a free pass, it’s you,” she teases halfheartedly, nudging me with her leg. “I owe you for taking care of me when I was sick, even if the medicine you gave me tasted like ass.”

“How do you know what ass tastes like?”

All she does is grin.

It’s a few moments of comfortable silence between us with nothing but the music playing on the laptop before I say, “You are worth more than anybody’s opinions. I’m glad you know that already.”

She fidgets with the paper on her lap. “It took me some time, and a lot of bad experiences, to realize it.”

I want to ask her to tell me about it.

But I don’t.

I’m not sure I’m ready to know.

And I don’t think she’s ready to tell me.

So we enjoy each other’s company without another word spoken between us the rest of the night.

MOM flashes across my phone screen as I’m leaving the Arnold Sports Complex after getting reamed out again with the rest of the team about our last game. My body aches from a shitty night’s sleep from being in an uncomfortable position that left a knot in my neck and a tweak in my shoulder. Ivy was using me as her own personal pillow, and I refused to move because everything about the way her body was wrapped around me felt like old times.

“Hey, Mom. It’s not Wednesday.”

With my packed schedule this semester, we agreed on Wednesday calls since I could carve out time easier for my parents. Mom asks me if I’m eating enough, seeing anyone, and keeping up with my grades, and Dad asks about football. By the time I hang up, two hours usually goes by because Mom steals the phone back and hounds me about proper nutrition and getting enough sleep since I’m always on the go.

“I can’t just check up on my baby?”

Scratching the back of my neck, I tip my chin at a few passing guys from one of my classes. “I never said that. I’m just surprised.”

“You shouldn’t be. Break is coming up in a couple weeks and your father wants to know about plans since you’ve got a game that week. Are you coming here to have a late Thanksgiving, or should we come to you?”

I open up one of the glass doors to the building holding my Calculus class and blow out a long breath. “Didn’t you say Grandma was supposed to come over for Thanksgiving? There’s no sense of you coming here if she is. She hates traveling.”

As soon as she starts laughing, I know what she’s thinking about. “You just don’t want your grandmother causing another scene. I swear, the people we sat by in the stands last time were two seconds from getting security involved.”

From what Dad says, Grandma was ready to fight the guys a few rows over who were cheering on our competition after a penalty should’ve been called. “We don’t need any repeats, but that’s not why. We’re playing the Raiders and it’d be too much of a pain for you guys to all come since it’s an away game. Let’s plan for a late get together like we did last year.”

Mom knows the history of my Wilson Reed days, and even though she was disappointed in what I did to contribute to my failed college plans, she’s proud I picked myself up and tried again. Both my parents have been supportive since day one and I’m grateful for that. Not everyone can say the same.

“If it makes you feel better, your grandmother has plans already for Thanksgiving, so it’ll just be us.”

There’s a brief pause that makes me feel bad for trying to derail their holiday plans, so I try making it up to her. “Maybe I could bring someone home with me if it’s okay with you and Dad.”

“A girl someone?”

I roll my eyes at her sudden chipper tone and stop outside the classroom, glancing at the time on my phone before pressing it back to my ear. “Yeah. A girl. Don’t get your hopes up though, she’ll probably refuse to come anyway.”

“Why would she do that?”

A second passes.

Two.

A third, fourth, and fifth one.

“Aiden Joseph Griffith,” she chides in a tone I haven’t heard since I got into a fist fight in high school. “What did you do to the poor girl that would make her not to want to come with you? And who is she? Are you dating? How come I’m only hearing about this now? Does that mean it’s becoming seri—”

My fingers rake through my hair at her rapid inquisition, debating my options. I’ve held off telling her this long, but if Thanksgiving could include Ivy then she deserves to be reunited with one of her biggest fans. “It’s Ivy Underwood.”