Page 64 of Best Year Ever

I have just enough memory of playing preschool soccer that I can see in my mind exactly what she’s talking about. The whole field of players moving in a scrum around the ball. Impossible to kick. Impossible not to be kicked. I picture Gigi and Wyatt getting in on this, and it makes me smile.

But there’s other important business at hand.

‘I got stuff for a cheese board.’

‘Ooh, very nice. Lemme see.’

I walk over to the fridge and take a picture of the packaged cheeses.

‘Is she staying for a month?’Lana asks.

‘I hope she stays forever.’

The message is sent before I can even consider whether it’s a good idea to say this to my sister.

Too late now, I guess.

‘!!!!!’is all I get in reply, but it’s enough. Lana approves, at least in theory.

There’s nothing I can say to follow that up, so I stash my phone and sit on the couch, far away from all the carefully placed statement pillows. I put my feet on the corner of my now-elegant coffee table and flip channels on my TV until I find a college football game. I don’t care who’s playing. Football is good.

If I can’t spend the evening with Sage, I just want to do what I’ve done with free autumn Saturdays for years. When I was at university, when I was in med school, when I did my residency, all the time—Saturdays for college ball, and NFL whenever I could find it.

Would Sage be the kind of girlfriend that hates football? I mean, she already told me she’s not into it, but would she resent an afternoon game? A few evenings at home, sitting on the couch?

Also, what am I even doing thinking about Sage as my girlfriend? We’ve already established that I was in middle school when she was born. And even if this turns into some kind of act of dating, she’s probably used to fancy box seats at NFL games. With waiters. Serving expensive seafood.

Instead, she trades for an admittedly nice couch made nicer by Lana’s additions, and a much older guy. With good cheese and sodas from the fridge.

I’m really not selling this, am I?

But I can’t get her out of my head, and she’s definitely acting like she’s interested. So maybe I’ll just send one quick text so she knows she’s on my mind.

‘Thanks for exploring the wonderful world of Vermont dairy farms with me today. I’m excited to see you tomorrow.’

There. Easy. I don’t ask questions, so she doesn’t have to answer. It doesn’t look like I expect anything from her—I just want to be with her.

‘You’re excited? What does that look like? I can’t picture it.’

I didn’t expect her to respond, and I can tell I’m smiling like a fool at the surprise of her message. I guess things are slow at work now.

Wait. She can’t picture it?

‘What does that mean?’

‘You’re always so cool. So calm. I can’t imagine you happy-dancing and stuff.’

‘Okay, maybe not happy-dancing. Go one step down in intensity. Big dumb grin. A little clapping. Probably a headstand.’

And wandering around my apartment looking for more surfaces to add fake succulents to.

‘I’m not buying it. You’re too chill for any of that and wait did you just say YOU CAN HEADSTAND? Jealous.’

How is she this adorable even over text? I can picture her, holding her phone in both hands, laughing into the screen. I almost wish we were talking instead of texting, but then I wouldn’t have a record of the conversation. I wouldn’t be able to reread her messages later.

‘It’s not impressive, I assure you. Just a holdover talent from my childhood.’

‘Were you the kid who walked on his hands in the playground in third grade to show off for the girls? Tell the truth.’

---