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“Do not fucking call me young lady again. And I’m not talking to you.”
“Anna, language.” Mom eases closer to me, like she might reach out and pat my hand.
I place my hands in my lap.
“Can I talk you out of it?” I ask again.
Her expression turns sad, regretful. “You don’t live here anymore, and I thought I’d buy something smaller when I return.”
“Never mind that your parents gave you this house. That it’s the only home I’ve ever known.”
Terrance all but crows. “I told you she’d covet the house, Cecelia.”
“Like you are, Terry?” I snap back.
“Anna.” It’s a plea from my mom.
“Cece, don’t baby her,” Terrance cuts in, rising to glare at me. “She can take care of herself.”
“All evidence to the contrary.” I stare down his looming figure. “And if you come any closer to me, you’ll see how easily I can take care of myself.”
Mom jumps up then. “Anna, Terrance, stop this now.” She places a hand on the sleaze. “Let me handle this.”
I can’t watch anymore. In truth, I should have left long ago. I know the drill. She might love me, but she always chooses her boyfriend’s side.
“I have to go.”
Mom’s mouth falls open, as if this is a shock to her. “But you just got here. You haven’t even eaten.”
If I eat now, I’ll throw up.
“I’ll talk to you later.” I grab my purse and leave. And she doesn’t try to stop me again.
Hurt, anger, and disgust is an ugly cocktail in my veins. Well, I think ruefully, I wanted a reminder, and I sure as hell got one.
I drive around until my arms are tired and I’m nearly out of gas. I don’t want to go back to my apartment. I don’t want to talk to Iris or George about it; they’ve both heard the saga of my mom many times before, and whatever they say is not going to help. Nothing is going to change the situation. Which only makes my agitation burn stronger.
The beautiful fall day is totally incongruent with my mood. Fluffy clouds bump around in a blue sky. The air is just this shade of cool, and the sun shines hot on my head as I walk across the campus parking lot, leaving my Vespa behind.
The stadium looms over me, and my heartbeat picks up. The closer I get, the easier it is to hear the sounds of play, the errant trill of a whistle, and the grunts and thuds of young men throwing themselves against each other or those padded training contraptions, the name of which I cannot recall.
Scattered about the stadium seats like birds alighting for feed are people watching the football team practice. Heads crane forward to see Drew throw a pass. The ball spirals through the air, fast and sure, and lands with perfect precision in a wide receiver’s hand. The player laughs and jogs lightly back to Drew, tossing him the ball before one of the coaches makes a comment to them. I’m too far away to hear it, and I like it that way.
Sitting a few feet from a couple of younger guys who wax on about the awesomeness that is Battle Baylor, I feel anonymous. Safe. The sun has slipped behind the line of the stadium, and my spot falls into shadows. Sweet relief from the heat.
Drew makes a few more throws, each one farther, each in a different direction, with a different approach. He’s wearing a helmet, loose basketball shorts that hit him at the knees, and his jersey without the extra bulk of pads. And every time he throws, a swath of tawny skin shows along the bottom of his jersey—a sight that makes all my happy places clench sweetly.
I shouldn’t be here, mooning like some groupie. It’s a clamor in my head, which grows as people slip away and I become more exposed sitting alone on the bench. But I can’t find it in myself to leave. I like watching him move, like seeing the way his team and coaches interact with him. They love him. It’s clear to see. As is the joy he feels. He’s lit up from within. And this is only a practice. I envy him. Never in my life have I felt that way about something I’ve done.
The team breaks up again, moving into clusters, and Drew starts some strange squat-then-jump-into-a-lunge exercise with a group of guys who must be backup quarterbacks, because they’re all holding footballs and pretending to throw them with each lunge. It should look ridiculous, but it’s more like a dance: graceful, powerful. None more than Drew.
God, he’s fast. My thigh muscles would rip away from my bones if I tried to move that quickly. But he just keeps going, as if it’s effortless.
My butt goes numb from sitting, but on the inside, a calm settles over me. I take a deep breath, drawing in the scent of grass, the metal seats, and a faint trace of clean, male sweat. A loud whistle rings, and they’re jogging off, leaving the field.
All but Drew. He’s pulling his helmet off, his eyes on me, as if he’s known all along that I was there. Maybe he has. I don’t know. My breath surges, as my heart rate increases. I find myself rising, my legs taking me down the concrete steps while he walks my way, his stride long and confident.
By the time I reach the emerald green field, he’s grinning. And though part of me wants to grin back, suddenly I am nearly in tears. Shit.
