Scuff Your Boots
Colt
Well. She still likes to go straight for the jugular.
May sits back, either exasperated or smug. I could never tell which one was which. That, among other things, it seems, hasn’t changed.
I attempt a flawless recovery that doesn’t come off so flawless when I clear my throat awkwardly. ‘So. Your senior year.’
‘Yeah,’ she says tightly. ‘Last season here.’
‘That’s … big. Coach and I were talking.’
‘Great.’ Her tone is dry as the Sahara. ‘Isn’t this supposed to be your senior year?’
‘Doing an MBA.’ I gulp down a sip of beer. ‘I wrapped up my degree early once I got drafted.’
‘Nice.’ Another empty one-word May-ism. She crosses her arms with a sharp exhale. ‘I’m not here for chitchat. Go on.’
The whiplash this conversation is causing me throws me off for a minute, but once I register what she’s asking of me, the words tumble right out.
‘I meant it. When I apologized.’ I don’t have to pour every ounce of my effort into it, because it comes out anyway. It comes out whenever I talk to her. The hint of alcohol trekking through my body makes it even easier. ‘I am really, truly sorry, May. I really am. I know my words aren’t a reason for you to excuse the way I left. The way I leftyou. But—’
‘We were young. Shit happens.’ She thanks the bartender when he slides her drink to her and takes a liberal sip, turning her body towards him. ‘Good stuff, Cain.’
I find it funny that she says that. Shit happens, but at least to me, it’s still happening. Definitely still happening when I start to notice things like the way her jeans hug her thighs, cinched by the gold-buckled belt around her waist, the way her black tank top exposes her strong arms and clings to the curves of her torso, edges both soft and defined, the way dimples etch her cheeks when she smiles at the bartender – smiles at the bartender? Thebartender’sgetting smiles? I tune into the conversation with a cut of my eyes.
‘… play Mayfair this year,’ he’s saying. ‘You’re going to kill it.’
‘Thank you!’ The smile again. Dimples. She raises her glass. ‘Here’s to it.’
‘You know it.’ He shoots her a sly grin. ‘On the house.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t—’
‘Gotta treat royalty right when you’re in the presence.’ A wink. Hewinks. Her smile broadens. My chest goes stiff. What?What?
They exchange parting nods as the guy rushes off to helpanother patron, and May turns back to me, the smile disappearing as quickly as it had crossed her face. ‘Anyway. Like I said. We were young.’
‘Yeah. We were, but …’ I sigh. Her exterior, frosty as it is, is proving impossible to crack. ‘May, did those years mean anything to you?’
‘What, other than the fact that we were two steers with our horns locked any time we got on the field?’ She chokes out a laugh, sweeping her ponytail off her shoulder. I spot an elaborate piece of ink, what looks like flowers, on the back of her arm. ‘It was a rivalry. That’s what it was.’
‘It was – yes, it was a rivalry. Something else was there, though,’ I blurt. May looks at me like I’ve sprouted the horns of the aforementioned steer. ‘Wasn’t it? And I left without a word …’
‘You had words,’ she corrects me. Her tone is biting, acidic. ‘Do you remember that text you sent me, Colt? That fucking paragraph?’
Ah. The paragraph.
‘I didn’t—’
‘“Hey,”’ May recites, voice a dull drone. ‘“Hope your senior year’s amazing. Been great playing with you all these years. Take care. Sending you strawberries from Mom’s garden. Keep in touch.”’
‘May …’ There’s so much I wish I could tell her. Like, ‘Do you ever feel like it’d be easier to cope with the fact that something will never happen by pretending the spark never existed?’ Or, ‘I’d never been more terrified to lose one of the most incredible parts of my life, so I just messed it up instead.’ Eventually, I can’t come up with my own words. I choose hers. ‘We were young.’
‘Sure. And the only person who benefits from that excuse is you.’ She takes a big swig of her rum and Coke. ‘Once someone runs you over, Colt, why thehellwould you let them back up over you again?’
‘Please, May. I just wanted to talk.’
