Mom had taken a leave of absence from coaching because the chemo was making her too sick and unable to use her arms, so I sat with Annaleise’s family in the bleachers. It was the first time I remember feeling off-kilter. Until then, I believed that Mom would get better and life would return to normal. But that night was a turning point. Mom didn’t even make it to Thanksgiving.
I’m early, so I pull in facing the slope of grass that leads to the stadium.
When Linden’s truck appears, Greta is behind the wheel, her hands at 10 and 2 and her eyes straight ahead as she pulls the truck next to my coupe.
Linden is gripping the open window frame like his life depends on it.
Save me, he mouths as Greta jerks the truck to a stop.
Though I laugh, there’s an awkwardness edging his smile. After we spent yesterday together, in and out of bed, he had plans with Greta last night so I returned home to catch up on sleep and prep for my next Alaska rotation.
We didn’t talk about us, or what’s changed, and a part of me is relieved. It feels too new, too elusive to put into words. But in the light of day, it’s like Annaleise’s warning is riding shotgun to my runaway thoughts. And now that Greta’s here, it’s a very real reminder that she’s part of the equation, too. While I adore her and love the small bits of time we’ve spent together, how does Linden feel about me being in her life as more than a neighbor she occasionally cat-sits for?
How does he feel about me being inhislife?
Why can’t I be more like Quinn, who has no problem living in the moment?
Linden jumps down, dressed in a sleeveless t-shirt and long running shorts, his jawline dark with day-old stubble that should not get my blood pumping. His gaze drops to my lips for a fraction of a second before he wets his.
Memories of his sensual mouth and soft, skilled tongue on my body turns the sudden longing for him into something intense—it’s like he’s pumped adrenaline into every one of my cells.
So…maybe I should quit fretting? It’s not that I feel insecure. I just don’t want to be left out in the cold. Again. Though with Russel, that feeling likely had little to do with me.
Before my messy thoughts start clouding my judgement, I spin away and lock my car.
Greta tosses Linden the keys and he snatches them, his big palm like a catcher’s mitt.
“I’ll see you back here at noon,” he tells her.
“Okay!” she calls out as we fall into step toward the field entrance.
Walking past the two ticket booths followed by the archin the fence pricks my chest with tiny barbs of emotion, but they fade the minute we step onto the track that circles the football field. So empty and quiet, it feels very different. Without the autumn darkness creeping in and the band playing and whistles chirping and rowdy students crowding into every space, it’s not the same experience at all.
If Greta makes the team, and Linden and I are still together this fall, would we?—
I shut that thought down. Linden and I haven’t even talked about tomorrow, let alone a month from now.
Greta and I warm up and stretch, then get to work. The cheer is simple, with a couple of turns and a catchy chant. The motions tickle a hundred memories of Saturday mornings I spent in our backyard helping Mom design new routines.
“Sharp,” I remind Greta as she runs through the arm movements. “It’s not fluid like dance. It’s precise and kind of aggressive.”
“I can do aggressive.” She tries again, and I gotta say she’s looking pretty good for someone who’s never done this type of thing before.
“It’s the big, stupid bow I’m not feeling,” she adds after she finishes, her hands on her hips.
“Because it’s girly?”
She takes a sip of her water and wipes her sweaty brow with the hem of her t-shirt. “Yeah. I don’t want people thinking that’s me.”
I get where she’s going with this but letting the fear of being judged steer her actions is a recipe for misery. “You could cut off your hair.”
She gives me a curious look. “True.” She flips her ponytail. “I like my pink tips though.”
“So you wear the bow,” I say with a shrug.
“And the short skirt.”
“Who doesn’t love a short skirt?” I throw back.
