Page 55 of Goalie Lessons

“Cheese and ice cream,” Grayson says, when they come into the kitchen. He moves quickly, putting away the items with efficiency and actuallyfoldingthe plastic bags before tucking them in a drawer under the sink.

I’ll have to ask him about all that later, but right now, Athena is climbing onto a stool, helping Callie and I to finish our puzzle while Grayson “puts the finishing touches” on the two chilis, which includes chopping green onions and cilantro, dressing each bowl with oyster crackers.

Twenty minutes later, we’re sitting around the table laughing as Athena tells us about a little menace in her class, a boy who causes the teacher a lot of trouble.

Each time my spoon clinks against my bowl, I have to shove down feelings of loss, refocus on where I am and what I’m doing. Sometimes, eating dinner around a different table feels like a betrayal, even when I know that’s what my parents would want for me.

After dinner and dessert, Grayson rinses the bowls and slots them into the dishwasher while the girls go wash up. I stand next to him, shifting from foot to foot, already feeling like I’ve overstayed my welcome.

Already feeling like I’ve entered into dangerous territory. Not with Grayson, but with the domestic, familial nature of all this. The running water, the little bubble of soap, the transition from eating to bedtime.

“I, uh,” I say, smiling when he straightens up, pushing the hair back from his face. “I’m going to take off.”

“Wait—” he reaches out, catching my elbow with his hand, and it actually knocks the breath from my lungs. I recover as discreetly as I can, not wanting him to see the effect he has on me.

“Sorry,” he says, “I just…I had a question for you.”

For some reason, my heart starts to pound in my throat. How embarrassing. I strive for nonchalance, “Sure. What’s up?”

Grayson turns, starts to wash his hands, not looking at me as he says, “Well, Callie asked me yesterday if she could go to the homecoming dance. I told her that of course she could—it feels like it would be good for her—but she needs a dress. Maybe shoes? I don’t know anything about it, and I was wondering if you might be willing to take her. If you have time.”

I’m already nodding, thinking about Callie, thinking about what it was like to go shopping on my own after my parents passed. The entire ritual of going to a school dance, getting your hair and makeup done. My mind is already turning the wheels, trying to figure out how we can make this a positive experience so she’ll keep engaging in extracurriculars.

“Yes, of course.” I reach out, putting my hand on his knee this time. “Of course I can do that. Sloane might want to come, too.”

“That’s great. I was actually thinking maybe Ruby would want to go, too.”

“Oh,” I laugh, “if Ruby comes, that girl might end up going to homecoming in Dior.”

“Is Dior…bad?” Grayson asks, tilting his head, and it draws a laugh out of me until I realize his hands are shaking.

I study him and realize it’s more than shaking hands—it’s a tight posture, his neck stiff, his cheeks flushed but his forehead pale.

“Everything okay?” I ask, leaning in, wanting to touch him but keeping my hands to myself.

He closes his eyes, shakes his head, letting out an uneven laugh. “Just…any time I think about the girls, I get thisrushof anxiety. It’s not a big deal, I just have to wait it out.”

I can’t help it—I reach out, put my hand on his arm, squeezing just before his elbow. His skin is warm and feels a ply thicker than my own.

Grayson goes on, laughing a little, “It’s just—I feel like I have no idea what I’m doing with them. The other day, there was this moment, with Callie, where it finally felt like we were on the same team, but then it was over, and I was on the outside again. I just don’t know how to get them to open up to me. Let me in more. Every time I start to think about the future, about what’s ahead for us, I get anxious.”

“I don’t know if you have a lot of coping mechanisms, or a go-to,” I start, “but you can use visualization techniques to summon positive feelings, keep the anxiety at bay.”

Grayson blinks at me, and I laugh, trying again, “Like…try picturing a time you felt at peace. A specific location in which you’ve had mostly positive experiences.”

“Like, going to a happy place?” he laughs, opening his eyes. “Is that a real thing?”

My hand is still on his arm, so I feel his muscles shift when he flexes, bringing his hands together again.

“Yeah.” I meet his eyes. “Just…somewhere you feel content, happy. Nothing too exciting.”

He holds my gaze. “Like hiking?”

Standing here in the kitchen, with the hum of the dishwasher just behind him, looking into his eyes, I think that he’s not talking about hiking. That’s he’s talking about hikingwith me. But I know that’s not true—that the whole point of having him walk through nature was to track the effect it had on his mood.

And that, overall, the effect was positive.

That had nothing to do with me, and everything to do with the scientifically proven positive effects of greenery on the human mind.

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