Page 118 of Playbook
“How old are you here?” she asks after a few minutes. She holds the phone up to show a picture of me and Archer in our junior high football uniforms.
“Seventh grade,” I say. “That was the last game of the season.”
“Did you win?”
“I don’t know,” I say, realizing it’s true. I think we did. I remember taking the photo and I remember it all feeling strange because it was the first game where Rosie wasn’t in the stands cheering us on. The reminder of her makes me reconsider Archer’s words from earlier.
“That was right after Archer’s mom died,” I say. “She’d been sick with cancer for a while so it wasn’t exactly a surprise, but we were still wrecked.”
“I’ll bet,” she says, a hint of sympathy lacing her tone. “That’s so young to lose a parent.”
I lift the rose necklace up with a finger. I told her last night that it belonged to Archer’s mom but remembering what Archer said, I decide to give her a little more truth. “Her name was Rosie. I gave it to her one year for Christmas. I mowed lawns and did landscaping jobs for a month to save up for it. I thought I was clever getting her a rose charm because of her name. When she died, we found like three other necklaces that were similar. Guess I wasn’t so clever after all.”
“I bet she loved it anyway.”
I nod. “She pretended to for me. I think she knew how bad it was for me at home. She always made me feel special and wanted.”
The truck goes quiet. London puts the phone in the cup holder and then scoots over and takes my hand.
“She sounds really wonderful. I’m glad you had her.”
“Yeah, me too.” I huff a short, brittle laugh. “I don’t know where I’d be if it weren’t for her.”
London looks up at me with a thousand questions in her eyes. “I want to ask, but I know it’s probably hard to talk about.”
I nod in reply.
“Just…you know that you can always talk to me, right?”
I squeeze her hand. “Yeah. I know.”
She doesn’t question me or push me to talk more and I’m grateful. Talking about Rosie feels like a lance to the heart. I often think about how if it still hurts me this badly, how much worse it has to be for Archer and his brothers.
I clear my throat and attempt to lighten the mood. “Have you talked to Sierra today?”
“Yes.” She laughs softly. “She was nursing a pretty wicked hangover.”
“I’ll bet.”
“But she had a blast last night. Thank you.”
“It was nothing. You planned it all.”
“Maybe, but the limo and the club were the cherry on top.”
I open my mouth to say something dirty but her hand flies to cover it before I can. “Don’t ruin this very nice moment.”
I chuckle around her hand. “Anything you say, sweetheart.”
THIRTY-ONE
On Sunday after another home game, I go with Brogan to the bar. The same one we went to the night our fake dating arrangement started. It feels like years ago instead of months.
The team is in great spirits. They beat Baltimore and even with my lack of football knowledge, I know they outplayed them. Brogan had another touchdown, and I screamed my head off with Alec in our seats close to the field.
“You want something to drink?” he asks as we make our way to the bar.
I place a hand to my throat. It’s dry from yelling at the game. “Yes. I’m so thirsty.”
