Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 84952 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84952 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
I look at her. My leg feels like it’s on fire, the heat extending out from the weight of her palm on me.
I’ve only actually touched her when we were screwing around in front of her ex. It was silly and fun and in front of the world. But to have her hand on me under the table in a way that feels resoundingly more personal—it feels different.
And good. How the hell does she do that?
“Tell us about yourself, Hollis,” Danielle chirps. “What are you going to school for?”
“Business administration,” I say. “Just like every other athlete in the world.”
Lincoln laughs. “Let me guess, minor in communication?”
“Music appreciation, actually. I try not to communicate with anyone I don’t have to.”
Lincoln’s laughter grows louder, and I chime in even though I’m not kidding.
“What about you?” Danielle asks Larissa. “Are you going into the jewelry business like your aunt?”
I turn to face my date. Larissa’s cheeks flush. A strand of hair has fallen out of the high ponytail she had it in, and I’m jealous of the way it flirts against her lips.
She removes her hand from my leg and clasps it against the other one in front of her.
“No,” she says. “I’m actually graduating in May with a degree in landscape architecture. I was afraid I’d end up hating it by now, but I think I love it more every day.”
“That’s how I felt about working in the Children’s Hospital,” Danielle says. “And I think that’s how you felt playing baseball, right, Lincoln?”
Lincoln swallows a bite of pizza. “Yeah. Absolutely. I wanted nothing more than to live and breathe it. Until I met you, of course.”
Danielle swats at him again, making him chuckle.
“Are you wanting to live and breathe football?” Lincoln looks at me. “I think it really comes down to that.”
“I’m just not sure.”
“What’s your family telling you?” he asks. “My dad was all for me going pro. My older brother Graham was all against it. It was quite the contentious conversation for a while.”
My face gets hot as I lick my lips. My gaze falls to my plate because I don’t really want to look at either of them.
I force a swallow down my throat. My spit feels like it’s on fire.
This is a question I’m not good at spinning. It’s too direct, too intense.
Deflect. Deflect. Deflect.
“Yeah,” I say, “I think my parents would be pretty happy if I went to the league. I mean, it’s a pretty big deal.”
“I’m sure they’ll be proud of you either way,” Danielle says.
She keeps talking, but all I see is her lips move. I don’t hear a word. My brain is too busy replying to her silently because there’s no way I can, or will, verbalize how wrong she really is.
I’m not going to tell her that going Pro would be the only way I figure my parents might bother to remember they had me. And then, even if they did, they’d only try to find me to see if they could benefit from it somehow. I can’t sit here and share that the last time I saw my father was a rainy morning when I was six years old, and the last time I saw the woman who gave birth to me involved a couple of ounces of dope.
Danielle sits across from me, her hands flying through the air as she tells my dining partners a story. I watch her, the sound muted by my errant thoughts, and wonder for the briefest moment what life would’ve been like with someone like her as a mother.
I can imagine her hugging her kids with the warmth she hugged me with tonight. I bet Danielle has cookies for them after school and does their laundry. She probably even tells them a story at bedtime. I’m sure she remembers their birthdays and even lets her kids believe in Santa Claus and the Easter bunny instead of telling them the truth to prevent any expectations of presents or baskets.
I don’t tell her either that there’s a hole inside me—a cave so dark and deep that sometimes it threatens to suck me in. The abyss gets wider during the holidays. It gets darker around my birthday in April because no one sits at the proverbial table to celebrate with me.
Hell, there’s not even a table for anyone to sit at.
“Hollis?” Larissa whispers. She lays her hand on my arm.
I snap out of my daze and look at her pretty face. Only then do I realize I’ve missed something, and everyone is looking at me.
“Huh?” I ask.
“Lincoln just asked you if you have any siblings,” she says softly. The tenderness in her gaze makes my chest feel like it’s caving in.
“Oh, sorry,” I say, clearing my throat. “I do. I have a little sister named Harlee.”
Who I haven’t seen since I was six.