I nod. “I should go. I have practice tomorrow and the drive back and?—”
“But the movie—” she says.
“I’ll finish it. At home. I promise.”
“It’s almost over,” she says.
“I can stream it and watch it and get the whole great vision of it—at home.” I sit up, and before she can do the same, I am on my feet.
I have no idea how to begin apologizing for my actions. Twice now—twice I have come into her home professing I’m not interested in relationships, and twice I have ended the night with her in my arms.
How does one apologize for being an idiot?
Fran scrambles to her feet. “Okay.” She licks her lips, and like a moth to the flame, my eyes draw there. Apparently, I can’t get enough of Fran Fairchild’s lips. Apparently, I’m just going to go on being an idiot. “You’ll let me know what you thought?”
“Absolutely, I will.” This is something my brother would say to our mother when he had absolutely no intention of doing what she asked of him. I’m not sure what it means now, in this situation. Only that if I ever watch this film again, I will picture Fran the entire time. I will pine for her lips on mine and long for her body to be snug against me. I will never be able to focus on the middle, the ending, or any other part.
Sorry, Fran. I will not be turning in a movie report on this one.
In fact—crap—I’m pretty sure Fran Fairchildhasbewitched me body and soul.
I stumble to her front door, and she follows after me, her teeth clamped down on that freshly kissed lip. “Are you going to call me?”
“Of course.” I wouldnotghost her. I’m not that guy. We have a deal—I’m helping her. And we are, apparently, practicing all things date-related. “Thanks for the…” I clear my throat. “Fun time.” I lean in, kiss her cheek, and then I’m gone. Out the door, down the steps of her apartment, and out to my vehicle.
I’m not even on the highway yet when I’ve made a call.
I feel as if I’ve done something horribly and morally wrong—twice. And that’s not who I am. There is one person in the world who won’t lie to me just to ease my conscience.
“Hello, my boy,” Mom sings.
“Hey, Mom.”
“You better not be calling to say you can’t make it to my garden party. I am holding it on the day my very handsome, very famous, very lovable son said he could come.”
“I’m not that famous, Mom.”
“I’m sorry, say that again. Are you not a professional athlete? Are you not the captain of the Reno-Tesoro Red Tails? Did Mrs. Mickelson not come up to me in the grocery store and ask that you send her grandson a signed jersey?”
I keep my eyes on the road and let a breathy chuckle rumble in my chest. “I’m on a minor league team, Mom.”
“You were once in the majors. And how many boys are lucky enough to even make the minors? Callum Whitaker, I did not teach you to be ungrateful.”
“I wasn’t—” I swallow down my pride. “I’m not trying tobe ungrateful. My name doesn’t carry as much weight as you think it does. That’s all.”
“It carries as much as you want it to. To every boy and girl, man and woman who loves soccer, who loves the Red Tails, it carries a lot of weight. Don’t you forget that.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Now, when do you get here? Because as I said before, cancelling is not an option.”
I rumble out another laugh. I might be delirious at this point—because I am still planning on coming, and I’m still planning on bringing Fran. “I’m not cancelling, Mom. In fact, I’m—” I cough. “I’m bringing someone.”
“Would it happen to be that girl you’ve been smooching at all your games?”
“Not all my games.”
“Oh, there was another video. You haven’t seen it? It’s all over TikTok. At least that’s what your sister says.”
