One Good Man

I met her gaze and held on. “They stop.”

“Is that what you want?”

“Off the record?”

“Sure.”

I struggled with how to answer, or whether to answer at all. This girl’s honesty was like an invitation for me to do the same.

Finally, I said, “Off the record: there are more important things in this world than what I want. On the record, Janey Martin, there is nothing more important than football.”

A silence fell and I realized we were both leaning over the table, less than a foot away from one another. I had a fleeting idea that Janey was diving deep into my eyes to read my thoughts.

The back door screeched open, jerking us apart. I tore my gaze from hers and smiled at my sister. “That looks good, Sophie.”

She crutched down the step to the patio, a tall glass of lemonade clutched precariously in one hand.

“I poured one for you, Adrien, but I can only carry one at a time.”

“I’ll have it in the kitchen in a bit,” I said. Her answering smile for me was sweet and adoring, instantly reminding me of my responsibilities to her and my mother.

But that doesn’t mean I can’t see Janey again.

I reached over and pushed ‘stop’ on Janey’s tape recorder and turned to her. “Saturday then?”

She coughed in surprise. “What happens Saturday?”

“We conclude the interview. You need to see a football match firsthand or your ar

ticle is going to sound like a bunch of amateurish gibberish. You want to be taken seriously?”

She pressed her lips together for a moment. “Yes.”

“So do I. Saturday at noon at Stade Jean-Marc. We’ll finish the interview after.”

“Antoine wants the article in two days,” she said.

“Tell Antoine I said to wait.”

She took another long pull from the lemonade, her pride not letting her say yes to me so quickly.

“Saturday then,” she said. “For the article.”

“Right,” I said, holding her gaze. “For the article.”

She finished off the lemonade and set the glass down. “Thank you very much, Sophie. It was just what I needed.” She gathered her belongings and turned to me. “See you.”

“You have a drop of lemonade on your chin,” I said.

“Where?” Her hand flew to her mouth. “No, I don’t…”

I held out the cocktail napkin with my sketch of her, my brow raised.

Janey dropped her hand from her dry chin, fuming. I expected her to flounce away. But she snatched the napkin out of my hand, dropped it into her bag, and coolly walked away.

I wasn’t in love with her, but in that moment, I knew someday I would be.

Janey