“Come on. Food.” Payton steered me away from the row of displays. “He’s going to be hours probably, and you don’t want to make yourself miserable waiting.”
Actually, I kind of did, but I also didn’t want to be rude. “He’ll be looking for us,” I hedged.
“So, text him. Tell him I’m kidnapping you so you don’t wear a hole pacing on the carpet here. I know how these things go—the press is going to need him, and then the bigwigs. We’d be in the way even if we managed to fight through the throng in there.”
“You don’t like me,” I pointed out, tone factual, not accusing. “Why do you suddenly want to eat with me?”
“Conrad seems to think you’re pretty cool.” Payton shrugged. “And I trust Conrad. Maybe the rest of us never gave you enough of a fair chance away from the game. We can do better.”
“I…uh…thanks.”
“Listen. I know what it’s like to be not included. So, let me buy you lunch?”
“I could have a sandwich.” I sent Conrad a fast text before following Payton out of the convention center to a hipster sort of joint with twelve varieties of toast, three types of kale, and outrageous prices. Conrad texted while we were waiting for a table that he was having lunch with the Imelda Sanchez. I was less jealous and more freaking out on his behalf. And I had to admit, it was nice, not eating alone, stewing over how Conrad was holding up. Payton and I watched the match over again, dissecting everything that happened, and conversing far easier than I would have thought possible a few weeks ago.
After we parted, I made two impulsive side trips. Still no second text from Conrad, so I headed back to our too-quiet hotel room. One more night. Then the trip home. Then…
Who knew.
The uncertainty had me pacing again, and even the distraction of TV didn’t help. I’d just landed on a creepy documentary about bees when my phone buzzed. I grabbed for it, but it was Mom calling back as she’d threatened, not Conrad.
“Hi, Mom,” I said as I turned the volume down.
“Hello, yourself. I’m hoping you’re in a better mood after your match.”
“Sort of.” I didn’t want to get into all the uncertainties clogging up my brain right then. “You saw?”
“We did. And it was no surprise that you did so good in your semifinal. And your friend won! What a testament to the work of Professor Tuttle.”
“What a testament to Conrad, you mean. He didn’t win because of any of the Gamer Grandpa strategies. He won because he’s brilliant. All on his own.”
“Ah.” There was world of understanding in that syllable, and I could almost see her blinking. “He’s…uh…a good friend?”
“He’s…” The best. I scrubbed at my hair. On the TV, a swarm of bees spread out over an apple orchard, not confused in the slightest about their futures despite the alarming commentary from the narrator. Inside, my head kept buzzing, the not knowing what would happen with Conrad almost enough to do me in. “I don’t know.”
“I see. Well, you survived the trip together, right?”
Survived was such a ridiculously inadequate word for the single most significant week of my entire twenty-three years that I had to laugh. “You could say that, yeah.”
“You being out there, with more people, doing social things…that makes Mimi and I so happy for you. And all I was getting at earlier was that hopefully you can come back with a fresh mindset. I’ve got a good feeling about a health administration master’s for you. The deadline is soon, but I’ve got some internship possibilities all—”
“I’m not getting a master’s in health administration. I don’t want to be a hospital administrator.” The bees on the TV looked as agitated as I felt. She didn’t seem to have listened to a word I’d said earlier. I loved my moms dearly, but I was done letting them decide my future.
“You don’t?” A lot of her chipper tone faded away, replaced by exasperation. “Well, what do you want to do?”
“Professional gambler.” I tried some of the humor that had been coming easier to me, but she didn’t laugh at all. “Sorry. Not that. I have been thinking about my future, like I told you I would. But it has to be my plan, not yours. And I think I want to teach.”
“Oh, excellent. I know you worry about publishing, but the writing—”
“Not college,” I interrupted before she could wax poetic about academia and call Mimi over and make this a thing. “I’m going to teach kids. I’m going to take a year and get a postbachelor’s teaching certificate. They don’t have one at Gracehaven, but the state university—”
“You want to teach elementary? But you’re so smart. And the pay… Maybe a master’s in educational admin? Like teach a few years, then work on being a principal or something important—”