Fool Me Once

Keegan: I’m here, but you’re not.

Me: I’m sorry! I forgot to tell you I have study group.

Keegan: No worries. Sierra said I can hang out with Zane still.

A second later a picture of a smiling Zane and Keegan hits my screen, and I take in a sharp breath at how identical the two of them look. From their messy brown hair to their perfect dimples. My finger glides over their faces, and I think about my conversation with Sierra—what it would be like for that picture to be the three of us instead of just the two of them. I click to save the image and then make it Keegan’s contact photo before I send him back a text.

Me: Give him a kiss for me, please. Have fun.

Keegan: Will do! Maybe I’ll see you when you get home?

Me: I might be late. Tomorrow?

Keegan: Okay, I was thinking we could introduce Zane to my parents this weekend. What do you think?

My heart stutters at the word we. It shouldn’t affect me the way it does. The thought of me and Keegan being a we.

Brenton swings the car door open and folds himself into his sport’s vehicle. I’ll never understand why big guys choose to drive small cars just because they think they’re cool. The guy barely fits inside. The thought has me wondering what kind of car Keegan drives. So far all I’ve ever seen is him on a skateboard or a surfboard. I giggle on the inside, imagining him taking a woman out on a date and telling her to hop on his board. Then I frown when I realize I just imagined him with another woman. Ever since my talk with Sierra, I’ve been thinking a lot about Keegan and me. He hasn’t brought us up again, but I think if he did, I wouldn’t be opposed to maybe seeing where things go.

Keegan: Jailbird, you there?

“Who you talking to?” Brenton asks, throwing whatever he has to deliver into the glovebox.

“Oh, Keegan. He wants Zane to meet his parents this weekend.”

Keegan: Hello?

Me: Sorry, I was talking to Brenton.

Keegan: You’re with him?

Me: He’s driving us to the study group.

Me: To answer your question, yes, this weekend sounds good. I’m excited for Zane to have more family.

I wait a few minutes for Keegan to reply, and when he doesn’t, I put my phone away. I probably shouldn’t have mentioned I was out with Brenton, but oh well, I can’t deal with these men and their egos.

After stopping at two houses so Brenton can drop off their phones, we arrive at the coffee shop. We spend the next couple hours going over our notes on our reading. Since we have our first quiz next class, we go over the points we all think are critical.

“J.C. is having a party at his place,” Lauren says to everyone. “You’re going, right?” She looks at Brenton, who looks over at me.

J.C. is the quarterback of Carterville’s football team, and the ‘it’ guy on campus. I only know this because the girls are always gossiping about him, and Brenton is good friends with him. Every once in a while Brenton will drag me out, and it’s usually for one of J.C.’s parties since he lives just off campus. He has a huge two-story house his parents apparently pay for, and shares it with several of his friends and teammates.

“Would you mind if we stopped by?” Brenton asks. “We don’t have to stay long.”

I check my phone, and when I see there’s still no reply from Keegan, I assume he hasn’t responded because he’s upset about me being out with Brenton, which is ridiculous. We’re nothing more than friends.

“I’m not sure…”

“C’mon, please,” he begs. “Just for a few minutes.”

“Fine,” I say, giving in, “but not too long. I have to get up with Zane in the morning.” Friday through Sunday I have no class, and they’re mine and Zane’s days to spend time together. We always get up and hit the park first thing, since the weekend is always packed. Fridays are less busy, which means Zane gets more time on the swings.

Keegan

“Come, boy, sit down. Sit down and rest.” I turn the page and notice Zane’s eyes are shut and his face is nuzzled into my side. “And the tree was happy,” I continue to read, even though he’s no longer listening. “The end.”

I close the bright green book my son asked me to read five times in a row and set it on his nightstand. I should probably move him off me, so he can sleep in a more comfortable position, but I can’t find it in me to move. As I look around his room at all the drawings he’s created that Blakely’s framed and hung up, at the stuffed animals in the corner, my heart feels like it’s being squeezed. Every drawing he’s made, every toy he’s fallen in love with, I wasn’t there for. I don’t know what any of it means. I don’t know the backstory to anything. I don’t know why he loves The Giving Tree more than any other book, or why he insists on picking a different stuffed animal to take to bed every night. I don’t know where he was when he drew any of those pictures, or why Blakely chose those to hang up.