Page 144 of The Fall
“Kicks!” Divot waves me over. “Tell this idiot that Washington doesn’t stand a chance against Dallas today.”
Hawks is with him, and he holds out a bottle when I near. “Beer? There’s a whole fridge of some fancy craft shit Blair got for everyone.”
“I’m good,” I say.
Blair materializes next to me, holding a bottle of Gatorade for me. Our fingers brush; the bottle is cold but his skin is warm.
“Thanks.”
He claps me on the shoulder and goes back to the kitchen.
The music is on and the banter is rolling. The energy is soft chaos. Everyone is scattered. Hollow is stretched out on the couch, showing Lily how to draw dinosaurs on a tablet. Simmer and Axel are arguing about football stats in the kitchen. Nolan’s girlfriend is chatting with Coach’s wife. Hayes sets the dining table with Lily’s help, and she adds a dinosaur at each place setting next to the bread plate.
I orbit Blair. Watching him move through his kitchen is the only thing that makes sense, even with everything else off-kilter. He knocks back a bottle of water and tosses it into the trash, then grabs a bottle of Gatorade, the same as me, and I realize… I’ve never seen Blair drink, not since preseason. Not since Columbus.
I scratch at the label on my Gatorade bottle. I try not to seem weird, but I’ve gone quiet. I stay in the kitchen so I won’t be tempted to pace the house or find his bedroom and undo everything fragile that’s holding me up. I don’t know what I’d find if I looked, and I’m scared, either way. What does it mean if I’m right? What does it mean if I’m wrong?Master bath with dual sinks, a closet where my clothes hung, a lava lamp glowing in the corner?—
Nothing here, the familiarity or the differences, would rewrite what happened or what didn’t. I’m still crazy.
When we gather to eat, dinner unfolds like a movie. Twenty-seven of us gather around, passing dishes, telling stories, and laughing too loud. Lily insists on sitting next to me. Blair is on my other side.
The heat from his thigh against mine under the table burns through my jeans. Every shift, every accidental brush of his arm when he reaches for something sends my heart racing. I focus on cutting my turkey into smaller and smaller pieces, anything to keep my hands busy.
Conversations overlap—Axel is telling a story about his first Thanksgiving in the States, Divot is arguing with Simmer about cranberry sauce texture, someone’s complaining about their fantasy lineup. This is what I wanted, isn’t it? To belong somewhere, to have people who matter?
But belonging means sitting next to Blair and pretending I’m not aware of every breath he takes.
“Pass the gravy?” Blair asks, and when I hand it over, our fingers touch. This time he doesn’t pull away immediately, and for a second, maybe two, his thumb rests against my knuckle.
I forget how to breathe.
Lily tugs at my sleeve to show me how she’s arranging her food into dinosaur shapes on her plate.
“This one’s a T-Rex,” she whispers, pointing to a mound of mashed potatoes with two short green bean arms.
“Great attention to detail.”
The chatter ebbs and flows—draft picks, upcoming games, someone’s new truck. I’m half-listening, half-trapped in my own head.
Blair shifts beside me, reaching for the salt, and his knee touches mine. “You want more stuffing?”
I glance at my plate. I’ve barely touched anything while everyone else demolishes seconds. “I’m good.”
His eyes linger on my face for a beat too long before he turns back to his own plate.
Lily abandons her dinosaur village to crawl into her dad’s lap across the table. Hayes catches her easily, continuing his conversation with Coach about defensive strategies while she nestles against his chest.
Normal. This is what normal looks like.
But under the table, where no one can see, my leg trembles where Blair touched me.
The game’s on in the living room after dinner, and half the team drapes across Blair’s sectional. A few are side-betting while the wives and girlfriends cluster in the kitchen, deep in conversation about upcoming holiday plans and charity events.
I hover, not sure where I belong. Nowhere, I think.
I slip out to the patio.
Florida in November tries to pretend it’s a brisk fall. The air is still thick with humidity, but a faint wind skims off the canal. This is better. Quieter. A place to breathe without feeling Blair next to me. I needed this escape to keep me from doing something stupid, like turning to him and asking if he remembers a life we never lived together.
