“Well, as yourfriend, I think it’s great you’re doing the thing. You shouldn’t have to stomach someone else’s dream, even if it’s your dad. I mean, we’re young. The world is our oyster, and all that.” She washes her bite down with a sip of her glorified smoothie, her tongue flicking out to wipe away the bit that got on her lip, totally unaware of the way my heart rate just kicked up. I’m enamored by the way she’s being right now. At ease and so at odds with the girl I see on campus.
“What’s your dream then?” I change subjects, not wanting to get mired down in my problems when I finally have a chance to get to know the girl who’s been so elusive to me.
“I’m living it. I mean, the dream is just another variationof this—better roles, more prestigious companies.” She says it like it’s a sure thing, and it has me feeling electric. Her confidence is contagious, convincing me that in this moment I could do anything, too.
“What’re you dancing right now?”
“Hopefullythe Sugar Plum Fairy, but…we’ll see.” And then that confidence disappears, replaced by a flicker of doubt.
“The Sugar Plum Fairy?” I ask, wanting her to tell me more.
“The Nutcracker?” Her eyes go wide with alarm, and a laugh escapes me.
“I know the Nutcracker, Gen. I just didn’t know you were rehearsing it. When does the run start?”
“Not until the end of November. And thenifI even get cast as her, I’ll be one of a few. So we’ll see what happens.”
“I’m sure you’re a shoe-in,” I tell her, not needing to see her dance to know her stubborn nature won’t let her achieve anything less than what she wants.
“How would you even know?” she laughs, shaking her head.
“Just a feeling.” I clear the rest of my plate, shocked to see she still has more than three quarters of her toast left. “Though I think you’ll need more than a few bites of vegetable toast to fuel you today.”
She holds up her empty smoothie, shaking it to show that she drank every drop.
“This was a very calorie-dense milkshake, don’t worry,” she says, smiling as she slurps the empty drink one last time for good measure.
“So you admit—it’s just a milkshake?”
“We all have our vices, Fielder. Let me have mine.” Hergrin spreads wide, a dimple I’ve never noticed appearing, and it has my own smile deepening. The way she beams at what I said has me thinking of all the things I could say to elicit this reaction over and over again. “I should probably head out.” She makes no attempt to leave, though, just watches me, and I can sense she doesn’t want this to end as much as I don’t.
“Come to my game,” I blurt out, watching as her face turns serious.
“I was probably going anyway…” She nips at that bottom lip, again—an adorable nervous tick.
Of course she was. But I rarely see her, and when I do, she’s sitting in some deserted corner of the stands.
“I’ll save you seats. Bring Jean, just—come. It’s more fun when you could get hit in the face, anyway,” I rationalize, needing, for the second time this morning, for her to say yes to me.
“I guess it would be thefriendlything to do…” she says, sliding out from her bench. “Text me.” She lingers at the table for a moment, holding my gaze as her lips curve in a soft smile. And there’s this barely imperceptible shift between us—I feel it in my solar plexus, or in the ether, or deep in my bones, but I feel it—before she turns around and walks out the door.
There’s a part of me that knows she’s not ready to admit that something has changed,ischanging between us. Just like there’s a part of me that knows I should be running as far as I can from this, if her behavior at Vida’s was any indication. But now that I’ve glimpsedthisGen—so different from the icy persona she usually has on—I don’t want to stop seeing her. I can’t staunch the urge to know her.
But I have to remember what this is for her, have to get my thoughts under control. Because Gen is no more available than she was before that bonfire, even if her gaze tells me she could be mine.
8
Gen
“I can’t believe you’re making me sit through this entire thing,” Jean pouts and I can’t help but laugh at his spirited attire that so perfectly contrasts his pessimistic attitude. He’s fully adorned in Astor Hill blue, a foam finger and all, leaving a trail of popcorn in his wake as we make our way back to our seats from concessions.
Typically, I sit toward the back of the arena, hiding from the judgmental eyes of my peers who seem to put Olivia Beckett on this sky high pedestal. I’ve lost count of the many games I’ve sat in the nosebleeds, wondering what life would be like if Will chose me instead of her. Hell, even if he had just chosen himself.
Today is different though, because I’m not here as Will’s pathetic number one fan, the one who he claimed was his good luck charm all through high school. No—today I’m here for Grant. I almost lead us to the back, where I usually sit, but then I remember our text exchange:
Grant
Don’t even think about wearing my number today. My game will be absolute garbage.
