Naz and a couple of guys are sitting in the living room watching a football game. I’m not interested in the game, but it gives me something to stare at while I pretend to be normal. I sink into the couch and zone out, wondering how long Naz will want to stay. He brought us here, but I’m the designated driver to get us back to his place after.
Everyone in the living room erupts in cheers, and I blink, looking up at the television for the first time. The camera pans across the field, zooming in on a player who apparently just made a big play.
The air leaves my lungs.
That face.
That jawline.
That mouth…
The camera cuts away from the player, and I shoot to my feet, heart hammering, muttering, “Go back, go back, come on–”
Everyone looks at me like I’m nuts, but I’m waiting for him to come back on the screen again. The camera cuts again, and there he is, clear as day.
“There!” I shout, pointing at the screen. “That guy. Who is that?”
Someone laughs and rattles off a name. “That’s Luke Martín. He’s a safety for the Cyclones. He’s one of the best defensive players in the NFL.”
“Nah, man. It’s pronouncedLuce, likeloose, or Lucy without the y. I think his full name is Lucien or something. He’s on my fantasy team.”
Mine, too. For the past six years.
“You know him or something?”
Or something, I think but don’t respond. I stare at the screen and repeat his name under my breath. Then again, over and over, each syllable carving itself into my memory.
His name is Luc Martín.
Luc.
It’s him.
THREE
JESSE
Naz lets himself in without knocking, the way he always has, keys clinking into the bowl by the door. “You look like shit,” he announces, then flops next to me on the couch and tries to peek at my screen.
“Thanks,” I mutter, angling the laptop away.
“You’ve barely answered my texts the last two days,” he says. “You wanna talk about whatever that was at the party, or do I need to start worrying?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Bullshit.” He bumps my knee with his. “Come on. I know you.”
To be fair, someone wouldn’t have to know me to recognize that I’m spiraling.
I’ve been in what can only be described as a state of dissociation since Luc Martín popped up on the television screen. Despite not being a sports fan, I watched every moment of that game with rapt attention, waiting for them to show his face again soI could be sure. During commercial breaks, I scrolled through whatever information I could find on my phone.
Luc.
I want to say his name out loud, to wrap my tongue around the simple syllable and draw out the sound, taste it. I haven’t let myself yet.
The man on the screen is a little different from how I remember him, but he’s a few years older. His jawline is sharper, hair cropped shorter on the sides, and his body has bulked out in ways that only time and the intense training of a professional athlete could accomplish. But in one of my first image searches, I found a picture of him exactly as I remember him. When I clicked on the image to open the article, I realized it was taken only a week after the night we’d been together. It was from that year’s NFL draft night.
On our way home from the party, I didn’t talk much. Naz asked about it, but I was still too dumbstruck to articulate what was on my mind.
