Dad wouldn’t know what to do with himself if he had too much free time on his hands. He’s not built for sitting still.
“So I should work harder and prove my value?” I murmur back. We’re a couple weeks out from my first big event for the team—a postseason awards banquet celebrating their finals run. Holt says they basically finished third. Fletcher says not winning it all is the same as finishing last.
They’re hilarious. It’s been fantastic getting to watch Holt interact with his friends and making friends with Goldie too.
“Half the team’s in too,” Miranda adds. “Something about planning a surprise for the coach. Just—watch the way you light up when someone walks past your office, okay?”
“Fletcher makes me happy.”
She cracks up.
We both know Holt’s only in the office if he’s in with Fletcher, who’s pretending he doesn’t know he’s a decoy, and it’s safer to like Fletcher since he can’t go three sentences without talking about Goldie.
And Fletcher’s in the office all the time.
Apparently his life mission is growing US rugby to be as big as US football is, and you can’t tell him he’s fighting an impossible battle.
That just makes him more determined. Or so Goldie tells me.
When Miranda finally gets her snickers under control, she looks at me and doubles over again. “Fletcher—makes you—happy,” she gasps through gales of laughter.
“Is this like saying that guy who does that annoying local TV commercial for his furniture store is my favorite?” I ask her.
“Worse,” she chortles.
“Well, I think of Goldie every time I see Fletcher. Did you know she told me she saw Abby Nora at a Pounders match late last year and Abby Nora completely snubbed her?Whodoes that? And toGoldie? And don’t tell me Abby Nora doesn’t know who Goldie is. Goldie’s basically famous around here. How did I not see how insecure Abby Nora always was? And how she judged people based on what they could do for her?”
I’ve gotten through the biggest part of my sadness over my friendship breakup, and I’m on to the petty phase where I’m mad that I didn’t realize she wasn’t the person I thought she was. I’m also hoping that she’s not getting a lot of sleep these days, which I shouldn’t wish on someone given my own circumstances, but I’m only human.
I’m a little embarrassed that I didn’t realize how much emphasis Abby Nora put on people’s perceived class in life too, how I feel like I was a charity case in high school now, her way of making herself feel good for doing something for someone so far beneath her, but I’m working through that.
When you only see what someone wants you to see over text and socials, and then don’t see them in person regularly, it’s apparently not uncommon to miss the red flags.
“She’s sad people,” Miranda says. “Sad people that you shouldn’t waste—what’s that?”
She points to a black-and-white image on my desk.
I touch it gingerly at the edges. “This?”
“Ziggy!”
Deep voices drift down the hallway as she lunges for the ultrasound picture. “Oh my god, is this the baby?”
My eyes get hot. “That’s the baby.”
“Look at her. Him. Them. What are we calling the baby?”
“Tater Tot.”
She squeals. “Is that their little elbow?”
I grin as I lean over the picture too. “It’s like they’re chilling in a hammock.”
“They think Mommy should’ve worked the tropics instead of the Med.”
“They wouldn’t be happening if Mommy worked the tropics instead of the Med.”
The voices outside get closer, and a full-body shiver works its way from my neck to my toes as I recognize Holt’s in the mix.
