Page 43 of The Player Penalty
“What is it?”
“It occurred to me the only part I’ve seen is your bedroom.” Sneaking in late at night like a teenager out after curfew. It’s embarrassing and also a blast. Who knew Pete Webb kept such an early bedtime or slept so heavily? “It’s late.”
Lily only nods. “What happens between us is only for us.”
We’re finally going to talk about last night. I once chided Sarah and Maddie for not confronting their partners, and now I finally get it. Uncomfortable discussions can be exactly that. Uncomfortable. “I didn’t plan last night to happen like it did.”
She doesn’t hear me. “I have a favor to ask. You can say no, and I would understand. It’s me, after all. Here goes.” Lily’s eyes slam shut, and she takes several quick breaths.
“Anything.” A thousand problems instantly fly through me, none seeming more likely than any other. “What’s wrong?”
Her eyes slowly open, and she glances past me before boldly meeting my own. “I want you to be my first. I’ve decided it’s time to get it over with.”
Get what over with? “Oh.” It’s my turn to yank at my hair.
“Julian?” The uncertainty in my name is obvious. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t. Not with me,” I say. My thoughts are collected enough to manage that much.
The faint sound of an engine comes from outside.
Perfect timing. “We have company,” I say.
The front door opens, and Pete Webb enters. He glowers at me with all the disdain a protective father can muster. “It’s late.”
17-Lily
Rivers Motorsports Headquarters, North Carolina
“You forgot your lunch.” I hand over the black lunch box to my Dad. “I saw it sitting next to the front door before leaving this morning.”
Dad grabs it from where he sits at his station. “An early morning phone call distracted me.”
It was probably Boone Rivers demanding some car engine miracle or something equally pointless at eight on a Tuesday morning. “What are you working on?”
“We’re expanding into trucks. Matteo Diaz is getting his first shot. Didn’t you meet him once?” Dad frowns at the memory. It was his birthday, and he mostly spoke about me. A few weeks later, I changed my major and delayed graduation by over a year.
“I heard that might happen. Seems exciting for everyone.”
Julian hoped to do more, but that wasn’t mentioned, and I certainly won’t ask. Dad came home two nights ago and broke up whatever else Julian planned to say. He already refused my request, so perhaps it’s best I didn’t hear the explanations.
Dad picks up the careworn lunch bag to pull out a container of baby carrots. “Your mother used to make my lunch, did you know that? Sometimes, she would bring it, and we would shareit in my office or on the picnic tables outside. You reminded me of her just now.” He smiles sadly at the memory.
She died shortly after I was born. Over the years, a few people have told me they’re sorry for my loss or that I must miss her very much. I always stammer a thank you because there isn’t anything else to say. It’s difficult to miss something you never had. I don’t know what it’s like to have a mother, and my lack of friends means there have been very few opportunities to see one.
There are also times when I miss her very much, or at least the idea of her. The younger me was convinced all my problems would go away if she were there to teach me. My father loves me, but he didn’t always know how to navigate puberty or boyfriends. I learned how to apply makeup and style hair on my own.
“Why didn’t you ever date?” I blurt out. Even after Sunday night’s rejection, Julian is still in my mind.
Dad nearly chokes on a carrot before putting the container down. “We were married almost twenty years before you came along. Twenty wonderful years with her, and then twenty more wonderful years with you. Why would I add dating to the mix?”
“Because I’m grown up now.”
“I had the honor of spending two lifetimes with both of you. That’s enough for this old man.” Dad’s eyes shine with an unanswered question. He wants to know if I’m finally ready to date or maybe even get a boyfriend. We never talk about it, but he worries about this part of me. “What brings this question on?”
“I know so little about her, that’s all,” I say.
Only twenty years and that was enough for a lifetime.
