I grip the frame of the barstool tighter than necessary and grit my teeth as I set it upright again. They’re too young, I chide myself, but then I hear it.
“‘The Mighty’ Mightener,” the first kid whispers. “He played for the Panthers years ago. He had over a thousand receiving yards and over a hundred receptions each year he played.”
“You and your stats-encyclopedia brain, Quinn,” another kid snickers.
“Hewas a Panther?” the first buddy asks, sending a different kind of pain through me than the one I’m already in as I keep my head down and slide the stool back into place.
“Yeah,” the stats nerd confirms. “He got drafted first pick to the NFL, but only played one season. He got in a car accident and broke his back.”
In three places,I mentally note.And his knee and ankle.
The history lesson doesn’t even bother me. It has about as dull an effect on my pride as when a weight bar’s perforation digs into a tough callous. Frankly, I’m impressed the kid knows his shit.Iwasthat kid.
It’s the final remark from his buddy that does it, though. It’s just a four-letter word, but the delivery of it—disbelief and a hint of pity—sobers any buzz I achieved.
“Damn.”
Swinging my gaze toward them, I watch the gaggle’s spines stiffen in guilt. Their baby-faced jaws drop. A few go red in the face and look away.
I’m not glaring at them, just letting them see the truth they were so curious about.Enjoy it,I tell them silently.Enjoy it while you can, and don’t be fucking stupid.
Turning away, I hobble to the door, unwilling to stomach being an exhibit of broken dreams a second longer.The Mighty. What a stupid fucking nickname.Ididn’t pick it. Whoever came up with it should have thought about what it might be like to live with it after a person can’t embody it anymore.
The humidity outside hits me with the force of a sucker punch. My nerve endings tune in to the barometric pressure, a veritable equivalent of the squelch of a radio signal trying to break through static. Something wet hits my cheek. Looking up at the evening sky, not a single star greets me through the overcast. Another droplet hits my nose.
And what do you know?
It’s fucking raining.
CHAPTER 2
Remy
“Give me a second to unlock the door,” I tell Jamie, pinning my cell phone to my shoulder with my cheek while I sort through my keys.
“I still can’t believe you bought a house.”
“What? Why?” I laugh, side-stepping a stack of boxes in the entryway that my mother sent. “Youhave a house. Why can’t I?”
“Because you’ve either lived in someone else’s or rented since I’ve known you.”
I know it’s just his perpetual honesty and not meant to be a dig, but I don’t needthat muchhonesty. Grimacing, I toss my bag on the sideboard and kick my shoes off.
“Yeah, well, it was time for a change.”
At that, he cracks up. “Don’t get me wrong—I’m proud of you for ending it with Winston, and glad you like your new job, but I hope you’re not becoming achangeaddict. What’s next? Get a new best friend? Because if that’s the case, then I might have to fly out there and stage an intervention.”
And like that, my mood is restored. Leave it to Jamie to amuse me by making everything about his neediness.
The hardwood floor creaks just the right amount as I make my way further inside. I know the memories it’s seen weren’t mine, yet the broken-in sound effects are a balm to my soul. It feels like a home already, one that’s housed lives before andis now passing the torch to me. I still want to kick myself for not having done this sooner. It only took me six months of—yes—renting again after my breakup to work up the nerve, but I did it. I bought my first house all on my own. I’ve only been in it for a month, but I’ve gotten more fulfillment from being a homeowner than my last relationship ever provided. I didn’t cave in to my indecisiveness or let a partner make the call for me.Idid this. On my own.
It would be an insult to my ex to call our four years together a waste, but, seriously, how did I stay for so long in a situation that was…nothing? Jamie used to tease me that I was looking for something that didn’t exist—a fairy tale. I’m not about to admit it to him, but I think he might have been right.
Six months ago, as I stared into the living room at the man on my couch watching television, I realized Winston might as well have been a stranger, not my boyfriend. I cared about him. I still do. He’s a nice guy, but…I should have feltsomething. Right?
Hell, maybe I actually have learned nothing and am still holding out for a fairy tale.
“Is a guilt-trip your housewarming gift?” I counter. “If so, that’s not going to fly. You’ve been cheating on me with Janessa for years now.”
