Grimacing, I attempt to take another drink of lemonade. He snatches the glass and raises his brow in warning before sipping through the straw. Jelly’s my first true friend on the team, and despite his unfortunate attire, he’s a straight shooter who works hard and doesn’t fuck around. His disappointment in me stings.
“Won’t happen again.” I hold his gaze before looking out at the pool. Its opaline blue surface ripples faintly in the breeze.
“No it won’t. We don’t have time for fuckups. We got the tools, and we got the talent. I want a ring on this, son.” He holds up his massive hand. It’s hard and scarred, and ring-free at the moment. “And I ain’t talking about getting one from my girl neither.”
A laugh sputters out of me. “Fuck’s sake, Jelly. I’m a rookie. And you want a ring this year?”
He simply looks at me with those steady, squinty eyes the color of new football leather. “You can do it.”
My insides twist tight. God, I want to dive in the pool, sink down in its cool quiet waters, and rest on the bottom.
“You can,” he says again.
Of course Jelly expects a ring. He should. It’s what the team paid top dollar for. A superstar. The QB who could become a legend. Thing with being a legend is that it isn’t easy or common; if it were, we wouldn’t revere them. My team can be the best in the world but if it isn’t in me to shine, then nothing will change that.
It’s a struggle to breathe, but I suck in a deep breath and look back at him. His broad face is placid now. He knows the struggle too. We all do.
“I won’t fuck up again, Jells.” My hand spreads wide over my thigh. “I don’t know if I can lead us there, but I’ll try my hardest.”
“That’s all any of us can do.”
I wish that were true.
Ten
Pen
Monday morning starts with bossa nova. Astrud Gilberto’s “Summer Samba”to be precise. Her honey-cream voice combined with the up-tempo Moog synthesizer makes me think of pretty ladies with lacquered beehive hair and A-line silk brocade dresses socializing at a cocktail party, swinging elaborately long cigarette holders while making their point and sloshing pink ladies onto the toes of their pointy kitten heels.
Snuggling down in my bed, I smile at the image. I’d like to have a cocktail party one day, hand out colorful little hors d’oeuvres that look like art but taste even better. I’d put on a flirty dress and laugh with friends while sipping martinis out of etched glasses. In theory, I’d like that very much. In practice? I don’t have enough friends to fill a room, and I’d probably hide in the corner or play waitress in an effort to avoid talking to anyone.
How... unsatisfactory. I turn to my side and pull the covers up high. August wants me to play at being his fiancée. I’d have to socialize on a public stage. I’d have to make conversation, to laugh and smile, and be... something that I’m not. He doesn’t understand that because, for a brief but brilliant time with him, I’d been someone different. I’d been open in a way I never am. He fails to remember clearly how quiet and withdrawn I usually am.
Or maybe he doesn’t care.
But he will. When I’m at his side, in public, he will. Someone like August needs a fake fiancée who will shine like a diamond. He needs polish and poise. Most days, I can barely tolerate talking to strangers. As much as I’d like to help him, I’m going to have to decline.
The thought of not seeing him anymore depresses me. Without this deal between us, what reason would he have to continue?
My stomach grumbles. As much as I’d like to stay in bed all day, I’m awake now, which means I need my coffee. But given that bossa nova is blasting throughout the apartment, my roommate, Sarah, is definitely up and about, and she’s a bit much to take today when I want nothing more than to be quiet with my own worries.
Another grumble from my stomach has me sighing and throwing back the covers. Glancing at my phone, I’m surprised to find it’s already ten. It isn’t like me to sleep in this long. The last thing I need is to spiral into a depressive episode. I have classes to attend, money to find, and a fake marriage proposal to contemplate. I’m swamped.
Laughing at my own cheesy joke, I pull on some clothes then head out to find my coffee.
Sarah is in the center of the living room, now bopping around to “The Girl from Ipanema.” While it’s not quite a beehive, she’s teased the top of her orange hair into a smooth dome before sweeping it up into a high ponytail. She’s wearing bubblegum-pink pedal pusher pants and a purple mock turtleneck tunic.
She twirls around and spots me. “You’re back.”
It isn’t a particularly happy announcement; Sarah finds me too quiet for her tastes. But I pay my half of the rent on time and am clean. Cleanliness and financial solvency in a roommate has become increasingly hard to find.
“I am.” I head to the small galley kitchen. The cabinets are vintage tin, painted in bright teal. Salmon-pink walls and yellowFormica countertops and vintage avocado-green appliances complete the look. In the full light of the midday sun, it’s bright enough to give me a headache, and I squint as I reach for anI Love Lucymug and pour myself some much-needed coffee.
“You don’t look great,” Sarah says from the doorway. Her pet, Edward, eyes me with distaste from his perch on her shoulder. As usual, they are in complete agreement.
“Thank you.” I add a dollop of half-and-half to my coffee and stir. “I’m grumpy.”
“Well, it can’t be from Astrud.” She takes another step into the room. “No one can resist the happiness of her voice.”
