I slump in my seat, earbuds in but no music playing, and stare out the window at the darkness.
My phone buzzes. Ordinarily, a tiny smile would form inside and I’d briefly daydream about April’s dimpled smile shining on me.
April: I watched. I’m sorry.
Me: No, I’m sorry you had to see us get destroyed.
April: Want to talk about it?
Me: Not really. Just want to come home.
April: The dogs and I will be waiting. I have snickerdoodle cookies from the bakery.
And just like that, the loss doesn’t feel quite so crushing.
An internal smile plays peekaboo. She’s so thoughtful. So sweet. A self-described “sister.” A long sigh escapes as I reply.
Me: You’re the best.
April: I know. Now stop beating yourself up. One bad game doesn’t define you.
April: Just don’t let it happen again.
She adds a few emojis and my slight smile matches the one on the last yellow head.
How does she always know exactly what I need to hear?
“Texting April?” Mikey asks, tugging on the seat from behind me hard enough to cause whiplash.
I don’t bother denying it. “Yeah.”
“Dude has it bad,” Pierre announces to the nearby rows.
“Are we really going to kick a man while he’s down?” I ask, but there’s no animosity in it. Honestly, I’m grateful for any distraction from replaying every goal I let in.
“Actually,” Fletch says, leaning over from across the aisle, “this is the perfect time. We’re all miserable. We need entertainment.”
“My love life isn’t entertainment.”
“Your denial of your love life is entertainment,” Hayden corrects.
“There’s nothing to deny. April and I are?—”
“Friends,” the entire section choruses in a falsetto.
“You know what?” I say, sitting up straighter. “Fine. You want to hear dumb? Buckle up for the highlight reel of the lengths I’ve gone to remain focused on the fact that we’rejustfriends.”
They lean in like I’m about to reveal the secret to winning the Stanley Cup.
“Last month, I made a point of high-fiving her goodbye instead of our usual hug because hugs were starting to feel too ... something. She looked confused, left me hanging, and said, ‘What are we, twelve?’ I went back to hugs the next time, but now I’m hyper-aware of how long they last because it’s getting increasingly dangerous to have her in my arms. Three seconds:friendly. Four seconds: fine. Five seconds: absolutely not, abort mission.”
Mikey is trying not to laugh. “Dude.”
“There was the Great Compliment Avoidance of last summer. She got her hair cut—so it just reached her shoulders, like eight inches gone—and looked so pretty.”
Mikey chimes in, “Juniper is an amazing stylist.”
Fletch chucks him in the arm for interrupting to gloat about his wife.
