Page 2 of Rushing Into Love

“Boyfriend problems,” I explained, a hot blush creeping over my face. They both nodded knowingly.

“Girl, who doesn’t?” The attendants whispered something to each other, then glanced back at me. The one on the right ushered me over and checked my ticket.

“You’re in Seat 2B now,” she said, winking as she took my ticket. “We ladies need to stick together. Enjoy your flight.”

“Thanks,” I said, smiling in gratitude. “I will.”

Breaking up with Pax would have to wait until I landed. I intended to take full advantage of first class while I had the chance.

* * *

As soon asthe plane touched down in Atlanta, I powered up my phone to a string of missed texts from Pax:

“Babe. It’s not what you think w/ Keely. But if you want to pump the brakes, that’s cool.”

“Life is too short to be unhappy.”

And my personal fave:

“Could you still pick my laundry up at the cleaners? Thx.”

Asshole, I thought, collecting my rollaboard and deplaning.What did I ever see in that jerk? He couldn’t even bother to call, just left me a bunch of texts, like a freaking middle schooler.

I sighed and shook my head, exasperated at my terrible choice in men. Like most of my clients, I blamed it on my parents. If my dad hadn’t skipped out on us when I was only eight, maybe I’d be better at this relationship thing. Probably not, but maybe.

Making my way over to the rental car area, I signed my life away for the opportunity to motor around the greater Atlanta area in a mid-sized Chevy Malibu. I collected the keys, dashed off a quick text to my sister, Brooklyn, and hit I-85, happy to be away from the prying eyes of the paparazzi.

* * *

Three minutesafter I arrived at my sister’s, she tasked me with afternoon chauffeur duty for my niece. Destination: Pee Wee football practice. Fine by me—it kept me busy and, frankly, I didn’t have much else to do.

“Alexa, do you have your mouthguard? Water bottle?” I asked, popping the car door open for her.

“Yes, Aunt Bee, see?” She held up her pink mouthguard and water bottle as proof.

“Great. Then let’s go.” I shoved her mouthguard into my handbag and clicked the lock button on my key fob, although I highly doubted anyone would steal my car.

After all, wewerein Peachtree Grove, Georgia. AKA, Smalltown, USA, home of the Peach Cobbler Festival and approximately 10,000 people, most of whom were born and would die in Peachtree Grove. My sister and her husband were two of the few “newcomers,” meaning they’d only lived here for the last five or so years. (They wouldn’t be considered “locals” until Alexa had children, probably.) Brooks moved when Alexa was a baby so her husband, Dr. Craig Williams, could be closer to the hospital at Emory, where he was both a prominent doctor and a professor. When she’d first described Peachtree Grove to me, I thought she was exaggerating, but then I came to visit. It was definitely a shock to my jaded LA system. No flashy cars or movie stars here. Just high school football. Which, by the way, is an actual, legitimate season. Seriously. It’sprinted on calendars, like the 4thof July and Easter. In Peachtree Grove, Friday is for football, Saturday is for football, and Sunday is for church and football. Weekdays are for work and football practice. Rinse and repeat.

Which I guess is why my niece loves football. And why I now found myself standing on a plushy field with tons of other pee wee players and their parents, looking for the head coach of the—what did Brooks say the name of Alex’s team was?—oh yes, the Lions.

Holding my hand to my forehead, I shielded my eyes from the sun. Even with sunglasses on, it was still too bright to see across the field. Ah, September in the South.

“Is that them, over there?” I pointed to a group of about ten kids on a big square marked with a #4 sign, two fields over on the right. “That might be the coach, wearing the blue shirt.” His back was to us, but his jersey said “Coach.” An excellent tipoff. Isohad this aunt thing down.

“Yeah, that’s my friend Cole.” Alexa nodded, then took off in a sprint towards the group, deftly dodging clumps of boys, all Alexa-sized.

“Wait up!” I called, doing my best fast walk across the fields. It was futile; she was already way ahead of me.I should have worn sneakers.Oh well, at least I’m not wearing heels and I go to the gym.

When I finally caught up to Alexa, I was a little out of breath and perspiration beaded on my brow. Flipping my hair over my shoulder, I fanned myself with one hand. I slid in with the group of moms hanging out on the sidelines, just behind the man in the blue Coach shirt. Alexa and all the other kids were in a big cluster, facing the coach.

“Okay, guys, it looks like everyone’s here,” the coach announced in a loud voice, doing a quick once-over of the Pee Wees.

“What’s your name?” He pointed at Alexa.

“Alexa Williams,” she said in a soft voice. The other kids chittered away, while Alexa stared down at her sneakers and kicked at a clump of grass.

“Hmmm, I don’t see that name on my roster.” The coach went down the names on his clipboard. “Oh, here. Alex Williams?”

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