I have a million and one questions—namely,What kind of asshole doesn’t support their kid’s dreams?—but I don’t want to press.
Cooper is already wound tight.
I nod slowly, thinking it through. “If you don’t play football, you’ll… what? Go into politics like your father?”
Coop’s a PoliSci major. It’s the obvious answer.
“Maybe.” He huffs out a breath. “I enjoy the work, and I take pride in giving back to the community, but my father and I don’t see eye to eye on several key issues. Most notably, women’s rights.”
I add women’s rights to my mental list of topics to avoid.
At this rate, we’ll be limited to the weather and not much else.
“Working in politics doesn’t mean you have to follow in your father’s footsteps. You can always carve your own path.”
A better path. Which wouldn’t be hard, since his father sounds like a pompous ass.
Like every career politician ever.
“What about you?” Coop asks, turning the tables on me. “What are you going to do after school?”
“No clue.” I sigh and slouch down in my seat before remembering that wrinkles aren’t a good look. I straighten and smooth the fabric of my little black dress. “I haven’t declared a major yet.”
I have to declare by the end of spring semester, which isn’t terrifying at all.
It’s just my entire life.
Coop hums noncommittally.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
It’s a rhetorical question. Of course I know what that sound means. I’ve heard it from my brother often enough to know it’s the crushing sounds of judgment.
Calamity Quinn, at your service.
“I just figured you’d be doing something with your writing.” He flicks the turn signal and darts a quick glance over his shoulder before changing lanes. “I’ve been following your column. It gets a lot of hits online.”
“It does.” More than most columns in The Collegian. “I love to write, but I can’t see myself writing human interest stories for the rest of my life.”
“Why not?”
There’s genuine curiosity behind the question, like he actually cares about the answer.
“Tales of my disastrous escapades are funny now, but at twenty-six? At thirty?”
“Not so much,” he says, finishing my thought.
“I don’t know. I can’t see myself applying to the journalism department, anyway.”
Hard pass. Modern journalism is a mess I want no part of.
“Have you ever done any creative writing?”
“Ouch.” I snort-laugh. My column is nothing if not creative. “You sound like my Creative Nonfiction prof.”
Coop reaches over and squeezes my knee, his thumb brushing my outer thigh. “You know what I mean. Like shorts stories and stuff.”
“A little.” His hand remains on my knee, a warm, reassuring distraction. “I tried to write a book once.”
