Page 50 of The Wallflower and the Running Back

“You were close?”

“Incredibly,” I say, a slideshow of my amazing childhood speeding through my mind.

I hang the painting back in its space and take a few steps back, Rachel’s hand snaking around my bicep.

“She was an artist. Not famous, but she made a living. She taught art, and she let me play with her paints. I was . . . no, I am terrible.” I close my eyes, shaking my head with a short laugh at the memory of the dogs I attempted to paint when I was in junior high.

“She passed away the summer before I came here. She painted this for me when I was a kid. I felt like it deserved a wall better than the one in my bedroom back home.”

Rachel’s hand coaxes my gaze to her, and her hand runs along my jaw and cheek as we stare into one another.

“I’m guessing Amy doesn’t know about that,” she says.

I shake my head but keep our gaze locked.

“I wouldn’t dream of sharing that with her,” I say, and I mean it. To my core.

Rachel steps up on her toes and presses her lips to mine. I leave my eyes open, taken in by the way her lashes flutter when she kisses me. Like a butterfly, or a bird. She sinks back on her feet and returns her focus to the sea of blue trees, my favorite color, just like her eyes.

“It’s beautiful,” she says.

I want to tell her I love her.

“So are you.”

17/

rachel

While I trust my gut most of the time, my brother Casey has never steered me wrong. When I didn’t think I could handle the pressure of majoring in the sciences as a woman, he called bullshit and told me I would thrive. And when I almost drove straight home after my first night in a dorm at Tiff, he stayed on the phone with me and promised me I’d find my lane. He also pegged Dalton as a cheater after only meeting him once.

In terms of my life, my brother is batting a thousand.

Which makes what should simply be a nice lunch date with my brother and Logan about a million times more important. And stressful. And I’m going to vomit, I’m so nervous.

“So, this guy’s a football player you said?” Casey reiterates. When I told him I was seeing someone on the team, he basically did a cartwheel through the phone.

“He’s good. Running back,” I add.

My brother nods with a slight air of arrogance, picking up his beer and sipping it slowly as his eyes study me. I figured lunch at Patty’s would be casual enough, and since it’s a bye week for Tiff, there’d be plenty of seating. It’s a little more crowded than I bargained for, though. I didn’t consider that the guys would all probably spend their off weekend at the bar watching their competition.

“Hey, Rachel! Good to see you,” Dante says, stopping by the high top I’m perched at with my brother and an empty chair—Logan’s chair. He gives me a sideways hug then folds his arm over his chest and nods toward my brother with a suspicious glower on his face. Casey is a good looking guy, but also . . . gross. Because, duh.

“Hi, Dante. This is my brother, Casey. He played at Southern.”

Dante lights up, probably more with delight that my brother played Division I than the fact I’m not stepping out on Logan.

“Oh, nice! My cousin was there a few years back. Left tackle. Kaholo Riven?”

My brother’s on his feet now, as excited as Dante, apparently knowing Kaholo well. They fall into easy conversation that skips from funny stories about Dante’s cousin to my brother’s favorite games and how they think Tiff will do this season. I take the opportunity to check my breath, and my phone.

LOGAN: On my way.

I relax, but it’s only temporary. I’m not sure I’m ready for my brother’s crystal ball to descend on my relationship.

ME: Dante and Casey are talking football. Take your time.

Logan had a scan this morning, and some more physical therapy. He’s been going doubly hard, which can sometimes backfire. He’s determined to get back on the field next weekend, so I hope he got good news today.

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