by Lily Cahill
I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything.
After a long moment, Riley picks up his fork and starts eating again. “So, you grew up in Granite?”
“Yes.” I toy with my fork. “We don’t have to make meaningless small talk now, either. I can just go.”
“Don’t. You said we can be friends, right? So let’s give that a try.”
“Friends?”
“Yeah. I like you, Lilah. I know you’re my teacher for now, but that won’t last forever. And I like spending time with you. I find you interesting. Besides, I can’t talk about painting with any of my teammates, and I have a lot to say.”
That makes me smile. “Oh, yeah? Like what?”
“Like … like this Pop Art stuff. That’s totally different from your style. But you said that Rosenquist had a big influence on you. So how do you know what your style is?”
I furrow my brow. “I don’t know. No one has ever asked me that before. I guess it’s about what speaks to you.”
“I feel like everything speaks to me,” he laughs. “I want to try everything. Are you teaching again next semester?”
Disappointment makes my frown deepen. I never would have believed this just three weeks ago, but I love teaching. “Marty will be back in time for fall semester. Have you taken any other art classes?”
“This is my first.”
“You might want to try a more specialized class. It’s nice to try a little of everything, but we don’t really get to delve deep into a single technique.”
“Yeah,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wish I could. But I’ve only got this year of school left.”
“What will you do after?”
“That’s the million dollar question,” Riley says, staring off over my shoulder. “This is my last year to be eligible for the NFL draft. If I get picked up, I’ll play.”
I thank the waitress as she refills my coffee and busses some of Riley’s plates. It gives me time to say out loud what I’m thinking. “You don’t sound terribly excited about it.”
He chews on his lip for a moment before he replies. “With everything that’s happened in the last year, football just isn’t the same. Like I said, those guys were my friends. What they did tainted the game for me.”
“So why are you still playing?”
“Habit? Up until recently, football was all I ever wanted,” he says with a shrug. “You want some of these fries?”
“Sure,” I say, dipping one in his pile of ketchup.
“My whole family plays football,” he says as I crunch into a fry. “It’s football or the farm, and that’s it. I never planned on doing anything else.”
“What would you do, if you could do anything?”
He ponders that for a long time. “See, that’s the problem. My whole life, the answer has been football. But now … I wish I could go back and undo what happened to your friend, and find a way to guarantee that it wouldn’t happen to anyone else. But I can’t do that. So I’ve got to figure out a way to live in a new reality.”
His words strike a chord deep inside me. It’s my turn to touch his hand. When he looks up, I smile. “I know exactly what you mean.”
CHAPTER TEN
Riley
LILAH WALKS BACK TO MY dorm with me where, unfortunately, the party is going harder than ever. “I somehow hoped that this would magically be over by now.”
She checks her watch. “It’s not even ten. I expect you’ve got quite a few hours to go.”
“I never liked this kind of party,” I say, staring up at the windows. “Too many drunk, stupid people being drunk and stupid.”
“I used to like these kinds of parties.”
“Used to?”
“Natalie did, and I usually had fun when she dragged me along.”
“Ah.” I don’t have anything to say to that. “You’ve come to parties at Taylor Hall? I can’t believe I never noticed you.”
“Once or twice,” she says, her eyes far away. “But binge drinking has lost its appeal for me.”
“Yeah, me too. I can’t believe I let Reggie talk me into this.”
“This is Reggie’s doing?” She surveys the laughing people sprawled over lawn chairs in the front yard, the streamers trailing out of half the windows, the sophomore gloomily cleaning up vomit. “Well, I guess he learned one thing in college—how to throw a party.”
“It’s the other thing he’s good at,” I say. Then I have an idea. “If I got Reggie to come to every class from here on out, could he still get a passing grade from you?”
She frowns. “There’s an attendance requirement. If you count getting kicked out of the first class, he’s already missed too many. But I guess if he doesn’t miss any others ….”
“He won’t,” I say, with more confidence than I feel. But I need to prove to her, in some weird way, that what she thinks of football players isn’t true.
“You’re going to convince Reggie to come to class? How?”
“Easy,” I say, grinning at her. “I’m bigger than he is.”
Her face splits into a wide smile. The urge to kiss that beautiful mouth is so intense I almost—almost—forget that she doesn’t want me to.
It doesn’t matter that I think her reasons are weak, and that she’s still mixed up over her friend’s death. She said no, so no it will be.
My mind is dealing with that reality a lot better than my body. Spending an hour with her up close has me even more riled up than when I was watching her in class. Now I know how she crinkles her nose when she’s thinking. Now I know how she looks licking the last bit of blueberry pie off her fork.
I’m a grown man, I can handle it. But dammit, I wish I could switch off my response to her as easily as she’s turned off her response to me. Because it was here, earlier, when she saw me in that stupid grass skirt Reggie made me wear. I know when a woman wants my body. Yet she refuses to admit it, and I’m not going to force her.
“Well, I guess I’ll see you on Monday,” she says.
I barely stop myself from asking her to come up. Or asking to go home with her. Or asking for any way to spend a little more time with her. But I repeat to myself the words that I already knew will be my mantra—just friends, just friends.
“Yeah, I guess I’ll see you Monday,” I say aloud. “And you know, I am literally always hungry, so if you ever want to hit up Duke’s again, let me know.”
She stares at me for a long moment, and again I fight the urge to kiss her. Eventually—probably—this will get easier. This crazy attraction will subside. Until then, I will just have to figure out how to handle it.
“Okay, sure,” she says finally. “Maybe I … maybe I have been judging you because you’re a football player. I should make the effort to get to know you as a person.”
“And I can pick your brain about painting. It’s a win-win.” I watch her straddle the bike and fasten her helmet. “Can you ride that thing in heels?”
She glances down at her gray ankle boots. “Honey, I can do anything and everything in heels.”
She probably means things like walking and dancing, but the images that spiral through my mind involve much more creative positions. Just friends, just friends. “Uh … be careful getting home.”
Lilah looks back toward the raging party in my dorm. “Be careful getting to your room. And maybe—could you maybe keep your eyes open tonight? Make sure no one is ….”
She doesn’t finish the thought, but she doesn’t need to. Silently, I say good-bye to the idea of heading up to my room alone and locking the door. “I’ll keep my eyes open.”
“Thanks,” she says on an exhale. “Thanks.”
Then she’s riding away. And I’m going inside, to babysit a bunch of drunks.
Over the next three weeks, I try to think of Lilah as a friend, a teacher. I try to think of her as a professional, as a peer, as a pal.
None of it works. I still want to fuck her silly.
“Fuck, man. I can’t wait fo
r this class to be over.”
I glance over at Reggie. With bribery, threats, and some minor violence, I have managed to do the impossible: Reggie has attended every art class. “You better not let Lilah hear that.”
“Ooh, Lilah’s gonna be mad,” he says tauntingly, elbowing me as we walk to class. “She’s got big strong Lotto wrapped around her finger.”
“Shut up, dude. I told you, it’s not like that.”
“Yeah, okay. I believe you when you say you aren’t fucking her, because if you were, you’d be a lot more relaxed.”
I glare at him. “Don’t talk about her that way.”
“Shit, you’ve got it bad, bro.”
“Seriously, Reggie. Leave it alone.”
Reggie shrugs. “Honestly, it makes all this art shit worth it. Watching you drool over her is hilarious. It’s nearly more fun than fucking with that British asshole.”
“I do not drool,” I say shortly, even though I know my lies are worthless. Reggie knows she better than that. “Look, she’s my teacher, and we’re friendly, but that’s it.”
“Uh-huh. Sure. Totally.”
Before he can tug open the classroom door, I stop him with a hand on his shoulder and a threat in my voice. “Just shut up, do your final project, and then you’re done, okay? I’ll never harass you about going to class again.”
When I open the door, Lilah turns to look at me. I go still, which just makes Reggie huff with silent laughter. But I can’t move. The impact of seeing her never seems to lessen. Today she’s wearing a leopard-print wrap dress that nips in at her waist and shows off her deep cleavage. She also has on a pair of strappy orange heels that make her legs appear a million miles long. But what stops me short is the look on her face. Like, for just a second, I caught her yearning for me.
Just friends, just friends.
With effort, I force myself to turn toward my seat. She hasn’t made a single indication in the last few weeks that she’s interested in me. Sometimes I think there’s something—a flash in her eyes, a hitch in her breath—but she never gets close enough for me to know for sure.
We’ve gone back to the diner a couple of times—once when I asked her, once when she asked me. She tries to maintain a teacher-student barrier, but it’s hard to stay distant when we have so much to talk about. Her life has been completely different from mine. From her stories about her grandmother, I gather that she is responsible and loyal. From the lack of stories about her parents, I get the impression that, wherever they are, they haven’t been a part of her life for a long time. And from the way she’s slowly opening up about Natalie, I can see she is still grieving for her friend.
It’s probably a good thing she closed off the romantic side of our relationship. Otherwise, I’d be in danger of falling in love with her.
Which would be a terrible idea. As my father reminds me during his increasingly frequent phone calls, I really need to focus on football. Over the last six weeks, Coach Prescott had worked us hard. As a result, we are finally starting to play as a team. It’s not like the Mustangs of old, but maybe that’s a good thing. I can see now that MoFo was stuck in his ways, determined to run the team the same way every year. Coach Prescott seems more interested in discovering our talents instead of worrying about how we fit into his system.
And it’s just in time. As soon as today’s class is over, he’ll have training camp and two final weeks to make us the best team possible. I know that, as soon as this class is over, I’ll have to put aside this indulgent little fantasy and focus on football. I’m going to miss it. Almost as much as I’m going to miss seeing Lilah three times a week.
“Whatever you produce during today’s class will be your final project,” she says when class begins. She’s wearing those black-rimmed glasses again, which never fail to drive me crazy.
“The medium and subject matter are completely up to you,” she’s saying as she paces. “I expect you to use the techniques you’ve learned in this class, but I’m more interested in seeing you represent yourselves.”
Her eyes flick over to me, then skip away. “Ah … feel free to use any materials you like. I’ll be here if you have any questions, but really this project is about you. So let’s get started.”
Most of the class gets up and heads toward the supply cabinet, but I study my blank canvas for a few minutes. What represents me? Once upon a time, it would have been football. But that isn’t enough anymore. I think about the last year, about the way the world I know has turned upside down.
Beside me, Reggie walks up to his canvas with a thick brush and a tray of red acrylic paint. Without hesitation, he slops his brush into the paint and draws a huge red circle on his canvas. “There. That represents me.”
“Jesus, Reggie. Try to put a little effort into the project.”
“What? I’m done.”
“Reggie, come on.”
“Hey, Lilah, I’m done,” he shouts over the chatter in the room.
She comes over, careful not to meet my eyes. “That was fast.”
Reggie shrugs casually, but his jaw is set. “Check it out. A big, bold zero—that’s me.”
She glances from the canvas to his face, then back to the canvas. “If you say so.”
“Sweet, so I’m done then? See you suckers later,” Reggie says, strutting out the door.
“Well,” says Lilah with a sigh. “At least you got him to come to class.”
“Yeah,” I say, staring at Reggie’s painting. Was that really how he saw himself? “So does he pass?”
“I suppose so,” she says, turning to me with a smile. “You’re a good friend.”
Her smile is so sweet. But I don’t want her sweetness. I want her passion, her intensity. My hands twitch with the need to touch her. We’re in a busy classroom full of students, but for a second it’s as if there’s no one else in the world.
“I’ll be right back,” I say, standing abruptly.
“Riley?” she asks uncertainly.
“Just wait,” I say, jogging out the door.
I know what I’m looking for. MSU’s campus is full of beautiful, well-tended trees, but there was a storm yesterday, and I noticed a white oak that lost some branches on the way to class. I know exactly which piece I want—a large, sturdy thing with one end raw where it split from the trunk.
I tote the branch back inside, where Lilah waits for me with an eyebrow raised. She just stares at the branch I’m hauling.
“Can I do something a little different for my final project?”
Her face moves from confusion to comprehension as she looks from the huge branch, to the wood wedge in my hand, to the small figurines that, by now, number nearly a dozen. “Riley … are you the one who’s been leaving these little carvings?”
I shrug. “That’s just for fun. But you said the final projects could be anything we want, right?”
“Sure, as long as you use a technique you’ve learned from this class. But, Riley, you’ve been hiding these things all over the classroom for nearly two months! Why?” Her lips are parted, her eyes wide.
“I like surprising you.”
She huffs out a little laugh, then looks around the room at all her students and consciously steps back from me. “Um … okay, if this is what you want to do, I say go for it.”
I sit down at my table, running my hands over the wood. Despite the rough appearance, the wood is supple and straight where I scrape away the bark. When I know what it needs, I make the first cut.
I’m used to working while things are going on around me, so the buzz and hum of a dozen artists at work doesn’t bother me at all. Lilah peeks over my shoulder a few times, distracting me with her perfume, but she never says a word.
Around me, the class slowly empties, but my project isn’t anywhere near done. Even with my hands working at record speeds, I’ve got hours left to turn this raw piece of wood into the work of art I can picture in my mind. As the final student hands in her project, I glance up at Lilah. It’s time—past t
ime—to turn in the piece, yet Lilah just nods at me to continue. I nod back then turn my attention back to the art taking shape under my hands. She’s watching me, I can feel it. The intensity of her gaze far outpaces what I feel from an entire stadium of screaming fans, but I channel the legendary game day focus and concentrate.
I don’t have any sandpaper with me, or my finer tools, but that’s all right. I want the design to be crude, raw, full of emotion.
I know the final cut the moment I make it and look up. My brain is buzzing and I feel hyper-focused, yet totally flexible. I’m ready for anything to happen. Anything … but that doesn’t stop the shock registering as I realize the sun is burning orange through the atrium windows.
“What time is it?” My voice is rough from hours of silence.
Lilah looks up from where she sits at her desk, hurriedly closing her sketchpad. “Around seven. Finished?”
Panic grips me for a moment. Did I miss afternoon drills? Then I remember and let out a whoosh of air—Coach Prescott gave us the day off from practice for finals. “Sorry I lost track of time.” I’m well over an hour past the final project deadline.
“I let everyone work until they felt satisfied. You just took the longest.”
Tearing my gaze away from Lilah, I study what the branch has become—a muscular male arm with fingers outstretched. “I think I’m done.”
“Good,” she says, standing and striding toward me. My hyper-focus narrows in on the sway of her generous hips as she walks in those towering heels. “Can I see it?”
Wordlessly, I hand it to her. This carving is totally different from what I normally do. It doesn’t look anything like the delicate figurines adorning her desk. I hold my breath, waiting for her reaction.
Lilah plays her fingertips over the rough-hewn fingers. “Is this piece reaching for help, or offering it?”
“Both.”
She sets it carefully on the desk. “I shouldn’t pick favorites, but … Riley. This is incredible.”
Pride and satisfaction swells within me, like the moment when the Mustangs score a touchdown and the stadium explodes around me. Whooping, I sweep her up in my arms, spinning in a circle.
