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Leaning back in my chair, I try to shake those ugly memories from my mind—Mom’s tears, her angry shouts into the phone, packing up all our stuff and leaving Dad in Denver.
Fuck.
Nylah doesn’t deserve this shit. I drove all the fucking way up here to ruin her night? Is that what I’m trying to achieve here?
If you don’t shake this, she would have been better off having dinner alone!
“I knew you’d come.”
Her smile is still in place, even when I mutter, “Oh yeah? You some kind of psychic?”
“No, I’m just that irresistible.” She winks, her tongue poking out the side of her mouth…and she seriously has no idea how accurate that is.
My lips twitch, and I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand to hide my smile.
“So, I’ve already ordered. Garlic bread should be coming out any second, and then I’ve ordered one Margherita and one Prosciutto.”
I raise my eyebrows and nod.
“But I didn’t know what you wanted to drink, so…” She gives me an expectant look, and all I can manage is a shrug. “Cool, well, you can just stick with water, then. Like me.” She raises her glass. “To happy times in a pizzeria with my cheerful buddy Carson.”
I snort, forcing myself to clink my glass against hers.
She takes a sip, her playful gaze unraveling the knot in my chest, until she leans her elbows on the table and softly asks, “You want to talk about it or…?”
I’m shaking my head before she can even finish. Her words die off, and I’m grateful. I can’t tell her about my family. Not when hers is so perfect. Yeah, I know all about the Joneses, with Coach Daddy and who knows what Mommy does, but she’s raised four kids. I see them in the stands every home game, cheering for their hero while he runs up and down the sidelines, directing us.
He’s not stuck in prison, serving twelve years for killing a guy.
That knot starts to tighten again, and I grip my water glass, wondering if I should take my smelly ass home and have a shower, then crawl into bed with a movie and a bottle of vodka. That should numb?—
“So, I had an interesting day.” Nylah—apparently set on ignoring my mood—starts jabbering. She tells me about this girl in her class who fell asleep and how the professor got the entire class to prank her. “It was so funny. We all hid under the desks, and then he blew his airhorn and the girl jolted awake and was like ‘Where’d everyone go?’ She had a mini panic attack, and then we all jumped up and scared the crap out of her. I almost felt bad when she kinda screamed and went so bright red, but then she started laughing with the rest of us and even reposted the video on her social feed.” She gets out her phone and shows me. My lips tug into a half smile as I watch it play out, and Nylah laughs all over again like it’s fresh and just as funny the second time around. “It’s so hilarious that the prank was Professor Coney’s idea, you know? He’s cool. Have you ever had him?”
I shake my head. To be honest, I can’t even remember half my professors over the last couple years. I barely remember the names of my teachers this year.
Nylah seems to be loving school, though. She’s got that freshman excitement about her. The whole new adventure thing. I guess I felt that a little when I started at Nolan U. I was most excited about not having to live with Johnson the Jackass anymore. But Nylah, she’s into it, man. Loving her classes. She seems to be really getting into the college experience.
I like the sound of her voice. It’s soothing somehow, eases this tight ball in my chest, makes it bearable to breathe.
The garlic bread arrives, and I devour three pieces while she tells me about her latest assignment, then gets all excited over the fact that it’ll take her hours of research.
“Nerd,” I mutter.
She laughs and throws her last mouthful of garlic bread at me. I catch it, popping it into my mouth and smirking at her.
“Nice reflexes.” Her eyebrows wiggle, and now I’m fighting the urge to smile. “So, tell me about practice. What drills were you running today?”
I shuffle in my seat and sit up a little straighter. “Uh… just your standard stuff. Started with a box drill, then moved on to a trigger step. Did some running stuff, then release stuff.”
“Do you have a favorite?”
I scratch my unshaved face and think about it for a second. I don’t like admitting my love for football. I don’t know why. Sometimes it’s just easier to complain about everything. I’m so used to being a grumpy asshole that talking positive doesn’t come naturally. No one has ever asked me if I have a favorite drill before, and I have no idea why I’m compelled to answer honestly, but after a beat, I nod and tell her, “The dip and roll makes me feel like some kind of action star, so I like that. It’s this drill where I have to dip my shoulder and roll like I’m getting clear of a defender’s coverage, then pop back to my feet and start running. It’s a good one for me because of my role on the team. As a wide receiver, my main purpose is to get that ball as far down the field as possible, so?—”
She snorts and shakes her head.
“What?” I frown at her.
“Are you mansplaining football to me right now?”