Page 1 of The Wallflower and the Running Back

prologue

Rachel Edwards

I don’t know why I thought having my big brother tag along with me at freshman orientation instead of my parents was a good idea, but it’s too late to rehash that idea now. He’s already called me Squirt twice in front of people I hoped to impress. And now he’s inviting the tall, blonde, senior sociology student running the future alumni booth to his football game at state, three hours away.

Great. She just said yes.

“You’re gonna love it here, Squirt.” That makes three. And this time he actually ruffles my hair.

I glance around and sigh in relief that nobody seems to have heard him. I love my brother Casey. And I know his doting over me comes from a well-meaning place. But as much as the both of us would like to see me blossom into an amazing social butterfly during my college years, I’m not cut from the same outgoing fabric that my brother is. He’s charismatic. Like a magnet, people cling to him. They seek him out at parties simply to be around him. They throw parties simply to invite him in hopes that he’ll come.

I am the flip side of the magnet. The side that pushes people away. I am in constant diffusion, drifting from the action—from people. I survive on the perimeter. It’s where I’m comfortable. It doesn’t mean I like it.

“Something wrong, Squirt?”

Four.

I plaster on a tightlipped smile and push my glasses up my nose, shaking my head. “I’m good. A little overwhelmed, but . . . good.”

The crowd of freshmen is filing into the arena, where we’ll break into groups and be forced to get to know one another. I’m dreading this, but also, I know it’s something I have to push through. A hand lands on my shoulder as I start to spin—both physically and metaphorically. My brother nudges me to face him and drops his chin to meet my eyes.

“I can stick around longer if you want. We can grab dinner?” His brow lifts. He’s giving me an out. And as much as I want to leap at him with a hug and beg him to transfer to Tiff for his senior year and rent an apartment with me, I know that’s not practical.

I give him a tepid shake of my head.

“I got it. Thank you so much for coming today.” I push up on my toes and hug my brother tight. He chuckles, probably because I’m shaking like a leaf.

“You’re gonna do great, Rachel. I promise.”

He kisses the top of my head and I break our hug first, trying not to cling to him.

“Call me after your game Saturday. You know I like hearing about it, even if it’s on TV.” I grin at Casey with pride and memorize his comforting wink as he backs away then turns to leave me on my own. He’s a senior tight end at Southern Iowa State, which is about thirty minutes away from our parents’ home, and he plans on opening a second family hardware store with our father after he graduates.

I’ve been watching Casey play football since I was old enough to handle three hours in a bleacher seat. I’m going to miss seeing him play this year. It was always part of my routine. How I spent every Friday and Saturday night with my parents for most of my life. I’m going to miss a lot of those routine comforts of home. But that’s what growth is, right? Pushing through personal boundaries and stepping into the sunlight.

“Hey, first-year! This way!”

I spin to my right at the sound of someone shouting and immediately smash my face into an incredibly hard, very immoveable chest.

“Oh, shit!” The guy attached to the chest steadies me as his massive hands land on my shoulders. My nose burns with a sensation that makes me feel as though it’s bleeding. Oh, God! Is it bleeding? I blot at it with the back of my hand to check.

“I’ll be right there!” the guy shouts. I blink to focus on his face and stem the watering. Hair the color of an old penny piles into waves on top of his head, the sides shaved into a fade the way my brother wears his hair. Faint freckles dot his cheeks, and his mouth pushes into a crooked smile. His green eyes are hugged by the crinkles formed from his grin.

“He was calling me. Sorry you got caught in that crossfire, Shortcake.” He breathes out a short laugh, and I’m not sure if he’s being friendly or smug. He’s wearing a Tiff U jersey, and I note the number to look up later—thirty-four.

“Shortcake?” I wriggle my arms out of the sling backpack we all were given at the orientation fair. It tightened around my body when we collided and was cutting into my shoulders’ circulation.

“Yeah, you know—cuz they’re red?” He picks up one of my strawberry blonde braids then drops it back to my shoulder.

My mouth forms the shape to say Oh but nothing comes out.

“See ya ’round, Shortcake.” He winks before he jogs off toward another guy in a jersey, and as annoyed as our brief exchange left me, it also left me feeling something else. Not quite flushed, but definitely not like I’m going to do great here.

Three years later

1/

rachel edwards

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