Page 59 of The Wallflower and the Running Back

“Yeah? You want to remember what I look like shitting my pants?”

My laugh is swift and loud.

“I can’t believe you said that,” I say, shaking my head.

“Yeah, well, I can’t believe I’m meeting your parents. And that I’m here, at a football game. Holding hands with the hottest football player at Tiff. And he actually wants me here.”

I stop at her words, tugging her into me so I can take both of her hands in mine.

“Hey,” I say, my gaze on her worried expression. I shake our hands lightly, as if jostling her will help whatever this is all about.

“Sorry,” she says, her voice vibrating through the single word. “I’m just . . . it’s hitting me, is all. I’m not this girl. I’m used to spending my Saturdays on extra-credit experiments, or not leaving my dorm room at all and binging?—”

“The Office,” I finish for her. “Yes, I know.” She relaxes a touch, her arms looser as I swing our hands back and forth.

“I want to make something abundantly clear to you right now.” I let go with my right hand to graze her cheek with my thumb and tuck a stray hair behind her ear. I leave my palm against her cheek, and she leans into it. I love it when she does this.

“I am in love with you. I have always admired you. There’s not a moment when I didn’t think you were the cute girl with strawberry hair. And when I found out how smart you were I was so jealous. I didn’t fail my chemistry class on purpose but if I knew that’s how I’d finally have the chance to get to know you, I would have gone right up to the professor on day one and said give me an F and a tutor to try again. And it would have had to be you. “

Her lids are heavy as a tears form in the corners of her eyes. I lean forward and kiss them away, my lips soft against her skin.

“You, Rachel Edwards, are too good for me. And I’m not this guy. I’m used to pounding my chest for an hour and listening to heavy metal to get into the frame of mind that I want to crush someone. I spend my Saturdays with a bunch of dudes who all prep the same way. I risk concussions for a stupid game that I fucking love. But not as much as I fucking love you, so get those thoughts out of your head. You might not feel like you belong here, but it’s only because you’re better than all of us.”

She breaks our clasped hands to swing her arms around my neck and leap into me, and I catch her, swinging her around a few times in a massively tight hug.

“Thank you,” she mutters into the crook of my neck. “I love you too.”

And that’s all I need.

I carry her for a few steps, mostly to coax her to laugh and shake off those tense feelings that gripped her heart and mind. Her body softening in my embrace, I set her on her feet when we reach the walkway that leads to the suite entrance, and when I hold the door open for her with one hand and hold her tight with my other, she gives me a squeeze.

“Pumpkin!”

Now, it’s my turn to have tightness in the chest.

“Hi, Mom,” I say, keeping a hold on Rachel even as my mom sweeps her arms around me. I hug her with my free arm and wince when she kisses my cheek with her plum lipstick-covered mouth.

“She did that on purpose, huh?” I say to my sister. My mom loves going big. Since the first time she left a lip print on my cheek my freshman year of high school, she has made sure to always have that stuff freshly applied to her mouth in time to mark me as hers. It’s a mother’s stamp, and it serves as a warning to everyone that she’s close by.

“Good to see you, son,” my dad says, stepping in while my mom admires her handiwork on my cheek. I shake my father’s hand while my mom tries with very little effort to smudge her mark away.

“Mom, Dad . . . Lola”—I pause and take a deep breath—“This is Rachel.”

“Hi, it’s nice to meet you,” Rachel says, giving my hand one final squeeze before she lets go and steps out in front of me.

From this point on, she’s in my mother’s hands. The plum mark of approval lands on her cheek in a matter of seconds, and my dad is making jokes at my expense within the first minute. My sister promises to share all of the most embarrassing stories with her during the game by the time I have to leave them and head into the trainer’s room.

I get a text as I walk across the stadium grounds.

RACHEL: Your mother is worried about your knee. I love her.

I don’t bother typing back, and while my eyes roll over the fact I have managed to amass two overprotective women in my life, I also love it.

My knee is wrapped tighter than those mummies we studied in my world history class. I told our trainer I couldn’t feel it and he said, “Good.” I suppose he’s right. I haven’t felt pain in days. My sprints were on track all week. And I feel as though I can take a hit and keep going. The fear didn’t stick, which is always the worry with a sports injury. Getting hurt can change the psyche. And football is a game you can’t play with caution.

I keep checking the box, not that I can see much from down here on the sidelines, but I can at least tell where my family is. Where Rachel is. They’ve taken the four seats in the very middle, near the front. I’m sure that was my father’s choice. While Mom came to talk to Rachel all afternoon, my dad came for the off chance I get to see the field today.

“Stay ready, Ford,” Coach says after halftime as the offense heads out on the field without me.

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