Halfway Girl (Girl 2.5)

Might have to follow through on that.

I plop into a seat in the stands without taking my eyes off him and realize our team is losing. Tension sneaks into Jerimiah’s shoulders when the other team kicks an extra point and I know he can’t help feeling responsible. He might have decided to stop covering for his bonehead housemates, but he still can’t help feeling the weight of responsibility. Can’t help wanting others to succeed. If only there was a way for him to do that at less cost to himself.

An idea flips a switch in my head and I smile, the vibration of anticipation buzzing up my arms. Jerimiah helped me conquer my own struggle today and I want to return the favor. And more than anything, I want him to know I’ll be here after the game, waiting for him, whether he wins or loses. Even if he tells me he has webbed toes. I’m here, rain or shine.

“Hey,” I say to the group beside me, nodding at the obviously last-minute signs they’re holding up over their heads. “You wouldn’t happen to have a spare Sharpie, would you?”

“Yeah.” One of the girls digs in her purse, never taking her eyes off the field. “You need poster board? My boyfriend misspelled the word defense. If you don’t care that everyone sitting behind us will assume you’re an idiot, you can use the other side.”

“I’ve been called worse. Thanks.”

Several minutes later, I hold the makeshift sign face down in my lap, my knees bouncing beneath it. Jerimiah is out on the field, and holy shit, I’m suddenly into football. He’s just so impressive. Every time he tackles someone, everyone around me winces and I want to yell that’s my man! Who am I anymore? I don’t know. I do know that we’re still losing and Jerimiah is growing more and more frustrated by the second, but he’s saying nothing. Just listening and executing. Listening and executing, like the reliable human being he is.

Even I can see their strategy isn’t working, though, and I know more about astrophysics than I know about football.

When Jerimiah jogs off the field, I bite my lip and stand, holding up the sign I made. Someone behind me yells, “Defense is spelled with an S!” But I ignore him and peek beneath the poster board, hoping that against all odds, Jerimiah looks up and sees what I’ve written—

And he has.

My heart stutters in my chest when I see him stopped at the edge of the field, his head tilted, hands limp at his sides. As he watches, I turn and let the crowd see the front of the sign and get a lot of whistles and cheering in response. In bold, black Sharpie, I’ve written, “Number ninety-nine is all mine.” A week ago, I would have cringed over seeing someone hold this exact same sign, but here I am. I’m leaping out of my comfort zone, the same way Jerimiah did by painting with no artistic ability in front of his peers, even though he was uncomfortable with being the center of attention.

When I turn back to the field, Jerimiah removes his helmet and smiles up at me. It’s the most genuine, beautiful smile I’ve ever witnessed and there’s no help for it now. I’m going to have his children someday. The deal has been sealed.

I don’t expect what happens next. There is a game in progress and thousands of people are here watching. Maybe I should have expected Jerimiah to drop his helmet and stride toward me, though, his long legs making quick work of the distance between us. The closer he gets, the more anxious I am to be in his arms, though, so as soon as he’s within a few feet of the front row, I drop the sign and run down the stairs.

“Can I just—”

“Yes,” Jerimiah calls back, nodding at a transfixed security guard.

“Seriously, just…jump over?”

“If you don’t, I’m coming to get you.”

“Oh my God.” I throw a leg over the barrier and fix him with a look. “Not a word about the romper.”

Jerimiah is laughing when I land against his chest. He’s sweaty as hell, but ask me if I care. I press my cheek to his shoulder and let him almost crack my ribs with a hug.

“I’m yours, huh?” he breathes into my hair.

“Yup.”

“And you’re mine, Birdie.”

It’s not a question, but I answer anyway. “That’s right.”

I feel his fingers slide into my hair and tilt my face up—and then he’s kissing me. Not innocently, either. If there are kids in the stands, their mothers definitely cover their eyes. With my toes dangling several inches above the grass, Jerimiah lays one on me and my lips open to receive his tongue. I’m barely conscious of the crowd hooting and whistling because there’s so much promise in what he does to me. That moment we share.