Page 73 of The Wallflower and the Running Back

Our chatter is enough to draw his mom’s attention, and she pulls both of us to the couch, standing back after we sit down so she can check the framing for the live stream. “Chuck, you have to move. Your head is too big,” she says to her husband.

“Liv, my head is fine. You’re just nervous. Sit down and let it happen,” Chuck says, his patience for his wife’s constant nettling hitting its limit. Having spent enough weekends with this family, I now know and appreciate the nuances.

“Maybe we should let Rachel’s parents get in the shot,” she continues, unfazed. Chuck rolls his eyes and recrosses his legs, doing his best to peer around his wife’s pacing body so he can watch the few picks happening before we get to Logan.

“We’re fine in the back,” my mom says. It was really nice of Logan to invite my family. He wanted my brother to come, but didn’t want my parents to feel left out. Like me, my parents would be happy to stay on the outskirts of this very packed room. And if I didn’t express how important this was to me to have them there, for Logan, I’m pretty sure they would have been content to watch from home.

Of course, at this point, watching from home may have been the way to go.

“You really never wanted to experience all of this?” Logan asks my brother sarcastically.

“Tempting, but yeah. I’m sure I didn’t want any of this,” Casey says through a chuckle, his timing on point as Logan’s mom steps up onto the coffee table to get a better view of the room.

“Mom, it’s a small streaming camera. The news is going to cut to us for a few seconds. I’ll have a real interview later when the news team arrives. You can sit down.” Logan’s mom seems to be looking at her son while he talks, but it’s clear his words go in and out.

“Chuck, can you move that vase? The orange one, behind you,” she directs.

Without blinking, Logan’s dad reaches behind him and nudges the vase off the edge of the table. It falls onto the carpeted floor and survives, but really . . . I think we all wanted it to break.

I wrap my arm through Logan’s and rest my head on his bicep while the chaos continues around us. His uncles debate over every pick that comes before him, and his aunts try to butt in and help his mom construct the perfect fifteen second live-stream clip. It’s a cacophony of loud family, blaring television commentary, and one incredibly yappy dog. Through it all, on the surface, Logan seems perfectly calm.

But I know he’s not. His hands reveal the truth as he’s constantly clasping them together and squeezing. His knuckles are red from his kneading, and his palms are clammy when I slide my hand between them in an attempt to break up his fidgeting.

“That obvious?” he says, his words only for me.

“Not to anyone else.”

He runs his palms on his jeans, his sweatshirt covering a Buffalo jersey, just in case. The hat is stuffed behind a pillow on the couch. Every prop in its place, including the orange vase that Olivia insisted had to go.

I weave my hand in both of his and he clasps it tight, his gaze linked to mine, unwavering. Gone are the days of living on a bubble. He’s not that guy. He likely never was. He just lacked the right woman to believe in him. At least, that’s the version I’ll be sure to tell our kids one day.

“Buffalo, you are on the clock,” the commissioner says on the screen.

Someone cranks the volume up, and Logan stares at his cell phone on the well-polished coffee table. His palms rub my hand raw, working back and forth, his doubt threatening his faith that this life he wants is within reach.

The more seconds that tick by, the more my own certainty threatens to wane.

But then the phone rings, the Tiff fight song blaring as his ringtone. The live stream light switches to green, and the twenty-plus bodies sitting in this tight, warm living room freeze. We hold our collective breaths.

“Hello,” Logan says, the phone pressed to his ear. I told him not to answer on speaker. I didn’t want him to mishear a word. And I wanted this moment to be private, for him and nobody else.

His eyes flit to mine, and his mouth inches up on the right.

“Yeah?” I mouth.

His small nod is all this room needs. Everyone erupts.

“Yes, that sounds great. Thank you. I can’t wait. I’m really excited to get started.”

There’s another pause, but the celebration is already unleashed, and there’s no quieting this room now. With one finger in his open ear, Logan bends down and says, “Yes,” and then, “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

And with that, the call is done. Fifteen seconds. Maybe less. And Logan’s life is changed forever. He stands up and pulls off his sweatshirt, revealing his jersey, his brand new and not-so-distant future home. One of his uncles fishes the hat from behind the sofa pillow and tosses it to him. It’s on his head before the stream shuts off.

His hands are visibly trembling, and he seems unsteady on his legs. It’s an awesome sight, especially for a man who has made a name for himself simply by being so sure on his feet. In six months, he’s become this massive man, his beard thicker when he lets it grow out, and his muscles like rock.

He holds his mom in an embrace and promises he’ll be safe and will come home all the time as tears fill her eyes. His dad hugs him next, his father’s large palm patting his back while he sniffles away the tears in his eyes. Pride shown in so many ways, but all so real, running so deep. The line of family members filters by, like a roundabout forming around the coffee table, and when everyone’s had their chance to congratulate him, he sinks down to the sofa, next to me, and holds my heart in his hands.

Our eyes meet. Everything else disappears. It's like this. Every. Single. Time. In him, I'm lost. Then I’m found.

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