“Such a Scorpio. It probably would’ve been doomed, but I used to wonder if they would just end up together one day. For some reason my mom still likes men.” She glances at me. “No offense.”
“None taken. We are scummy trolls.”
When we walk up to the student union where the group is meeting, Clover reaches for my hand, her fingers leaving the warmth of her parka pocket. “Here,” I say, and pull her hand into my fleece-lined pocket.
She moans. “So warm.”
The group has grown significantly, so Miss Linch has everyone fill out name tags before we walk over to Rook Stadium.
Clover leans her head on my arm as Sandra and Greta come up beside us.
“All right,” Greta says. “Bennett, you’re an upperclassman. Is this just a late-night pep rally?”
“Sort of,” I tell them. “The football team, cheerleading team, band, and the drill team—they all gather in front of the stadium at midnight before a home game. That part is like a pep rally, but it’s also to practice the chants that will happen in the home stands for tomorrow’s game.”
“See, we did this all backward, honey,” Sandra says to Greta like she’s won some sort of argument. “No wonder we had no clue what the heck everyone was doing during the game last month.”
Clover laughs softly and looks up at me, and my gut clenches at the reality that this will be over in less than two months and that we will never be middle-aged and bickering like Greta and Sandra.
“The best part,” I tell them, my gaze intent on Clover, “is at theend of Midnight Yell when they turn all the lights off for a few seconds. You’re supposed to kiss your date or hold up a lighter or a phone so that people without dates can shoot their shot with a stranger.”
“That’s so romantic,” Sandra says. “I swear, some days being a student here makes me feel older than dirt.” She pauses with a glance over to her wife. “But then I’m so thankful to have moments like these with my Greta because we weren’t lucky like the two of you. We didn’t find each other until much later on, did we?”
Greta drops a kiss on Sandra’s forehead. “Better late than never.”
Clover lays her head back against me and the contact sends a rush of relief through me.
The outside of the stadium is already full of students with chattering teeth. The ground is soft from the endless rain today, but the clouds have cleared enough for the moonlight to reflect off the high points of Clover’s face: the tip of her nose, her cheekbones.
We stop at a hot chocolate stand, and I order a cup for each of us. She glances around as bodies begin to close in, swaying on the tips of her toes as she tries to find a gap in the crowd to see up ahead.
I tug her hand close and keep her tucked against my side as I navigate through the crowd.
“Excuse us, excuse us,” she says over and over again.
“Here we go,” I tell her as we reach a small stone half wall that breaks up the entrance to the stadium for crowd control, I assume.
“Where—”
I step in front of her, my hands on her waist, and begin to hoist her up.
“Bennett, what the fuck? You’re going to hurt yourself.”
I roll my eyes and she makes a puffy littlehmphas I sit her down on the wall and step between her legs under the guise that it is noisy and we need to be close to hear each other.
“You can’t lift me like that,” she scolds me from above. “You’re going to throw your back out or something. I’m too—”
I hold my pointer finger over her lips. “Don’t do that,” I tell her. “Don’t tell me you’re too big or I’m going to hurt myself. If I couldn’t lift you up, I wouldn’t. When have you ever known me to do something I didn’t want to do?”
She wraps her fingers around my wrist and pulls my hand down, but doesn’t let go.
My heart falters, and if my cardiologist heard the rhythm in his stethoscope, he’d probably send me in for an EKG.
“Our wedding?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Try again.”
Her lips part on a protest, but the crowd swells as the cheerleading teams storm the temporary stage at the gates of the stadium.
