My “Appreciate it” is too euphoric for a conversation about moving trucks and helping hands.
“Did you and Marcela unpack everything? I know you called her for help.” My sister walks by in a community center tee, jeans, and Chucks. Her camera-ready smile dissolves at Antonio’s shout. “Thanks for the heads-up that she’s here! I thought we were family?”
“Boy, bye!” She rolls her neck, which is anchored by a loose bun, and sets off toward a family. Constituents, no doubt.
I giggle and nudge Antonio’s knee with mine. “Marcela only does manual labor when required. I’m giving myself the week to finish unpacking. My new sofa arrives on Friday, and I want the living room set up before that.”
He nods through a bite of pretzel. “I’ll swing by after Friday’s practice. I’m free after this if you need help today.”
“Sure about that?” I motion to the messages lighting up his phone. Some things never change.
“I mean, Icanbe free,” he clarifies. “If you need me.”
“I’ll be fine, thanks. You sure someone’s not dying?” I laugh at his groan. It’s not funny if someone really is passing away, but I get the sense that no one is. He might want to check the bushes before he leaves.
“It’s the team chat,” he says, ignoring Lala and her texts that double as smoke signals. “Conditioning got bumped to ten tomorrow. My teammates are throwing another party at Steel House tonight. When did you say your sofa comes?”
“Friday, and you’re not spending the night.”
“Come on, Doe!” Antonio whines. “I need my beauty rest. I’ll bring my own pillow.”
His plea is a mix of pouted lips, a creased forehead, and brown eyes that beg me to save him from the hell he created. His baby face on a body rivaling Alan Ritchson’s is a sight.
“I’llthinkabout it, but I make no guarantees.” After living in dorms and shared campus apartments, I crave my own space.
“Thank you, bestie!” Thick arms wrap around me, melding my body and now-crooked glasses to his. “Did I mention that I’m happy you’re here?”
“I’m starting to regret coming. Can’t. Breathe. Again,” I mumble through smushed lips.
“Sorry.” Antonio scoots back. How anyone survives his tackles is a medical miracle. His hugs are heavy.
“Iamhappy you’re here,” he says, his voice soft, his eyes pinned to mine.
The air hangs in silence, weighing our glances with a sensation that needles my chest. Approaching Steel players cut through our trance, and the Darcy-Weisbach equation reroutes my thoughts.
“Can we go? I played, got shit painted on my face, and didn’t cuss out any kids. I need a nap,” Bagel or whoever declares, his body slumped and chest heaving from keeping up with children half his size.
“Yeah,” Antonio chuckles. “We can go, Bread.”
“Say less. I’ll be in the car. Maid Miriam—”
“Who?” I snort.
“The fox in thatRobin Hoodmovie they played today,” Bread says with confidence.
“MaidMarian, dickhead,” the Kendrick look-alike corrects.
“Fuck you too,” Bread tosses at his smirk. “Like I was saying, Maid Miriam, you’re cool people if you can keep Papa Smurf over here from digging in our asses. Feel free to talk to him in any closet, or whatever you two do.”
“You must want to walk home.” Antonio stands and pulls me with him. “You good here, Doe?”
“Doe. Cute,” Bread mocks with heart eyes. He nudges his teammate, who grins.
Antonio’s sigh is that of a tired dad. “It’s not even like that. She’s just a friend. Go to the car.”
The way he hurls the word “friend” shouldn’t sting, but it does. I am “just a friend,” but hearing it like that, like an afterthought, stirs the part of me that takes offense at how easily Antonio brushes me off. The person he claims to be his bestie.
“You sure you don’t need us for anything?” Antonio asks again.
