“Oof, sorry about that.” He flinched dramatically. “Why?”
I wasn’t about to mention Wes, because I didn’t want to getinto the inevitable questions about how it was possible that we were related given our different skin tones. After twenty-eight years as siblings, the “half” part didn’t even register to us. We had the same eyes, sense of humor, and love of stupid memes.
“I like their logo,” I replied with a shrug.
I did have more than my fair share of merch featuring the Barnham City owl mascot.
“Good thing it’s an exhibition match,” the guy said. “They still have a chance to get it together before the season starts.”
I glanced back at the screen just as the camera panned to Wes as he got ready to sub in. The family group text lit up right on cue.
“Sorry, I need to respond to this.” I held up my phone and shrugged as it pinged with messages composed of emojis and exclamation points.
“Just when it’s about to get good,” the stranger said, nodding toward my brother’s pensive face filling the screen. “Wesley Nelson is amazing.”
The man had a point. I put my headphones back on and refocused on the messages piling up. My parents, aunts and uncles, cousins, and Wesley’s father’s family in England were all on it, offering their take on every aspect of the game. If positive vibrations and manifesting were a thing, the spirit in the group text should’ve been enough to guarantee a Barnham win.
My mom took advantage of the fact that I was active on it to message me solo.
You okay, sweetheart?
I’d basically gone dark over the past few weeks, chalking it up to my deadline and downplaying the whole broken-heart thing. But she knew better.
Yup, all good. Working
A pause as the group text swelled with pride when Wes appeared on camera again.
So handsome!
Looking fierce and ready!
Choke on it, Coventry!
Here we go, here we go, here we go????
How’s the book coming?my mom texted me.BetterI hope?
I scrolled over to my email account before writing back to her, hoping that there was a miracle in the form of a deadline extension waiting for me. The only message from my editor, Piper, was the one from a few days ago that I’d ignored, asking if I was on track for my first ten-thousand-word review. I flipped back to my draft and felt a familiar dread claw at my throat.
I’d written 1,152 words. Crappy ones at that. Hollow, simplistic, high-schooler-trying-to-hit-the-book-report-word-count words that suggested I’d never felt a real human emotion.
Getting there,I texted back to her.
When it came to my mom, less information was always the best course of action. She was a worrier by nature, taking on the stress of her loved ones like she was volunteering as tribute.I knew she was already maxed out helping my dad rehab from his latest training-induced injury, which had the potential to keep him from running in the Philadelphia Marathon with her in the fall.
How’s Dad?
We paused to briefly celebrate a pass to Wes.
Better! He hates the reduced workout schedule, but he knows it’s the only strategy for his knee. I have to train when he’s not around, otherwise he tries to join me!
Running was the foundation of my parents’ relationship. They’d met when my mom took it up after she lost Albert as a way to channel her grief into something tangible and manageable. She’d told me that every ache she endured as she ran was a reminder that she was still among the living, even though her broken heart made her wonder why she bothered. But she had two-year-old Wes and the hope that maybe the endorphins she got from the Montgomery County Striders Club would be enough to get her out of bed each day.
Then she met my dad during a 6 a.m. fun run (a total oxymoron), which proved that it was possible to havetwosoulmates.
Ha. Dad’s addicted to exercise. I need to get back to work now. I’m nowhere near my daily word count goal.
Do you want me to read what you’ve got?
