by Lily Cahill
Riley stifles a laugh. “Well, I don’t know about that, ma’am,” he replies, his country charm in full force. “But he’s sure working us hard.”
As my grandma leads him back to the kitchen, I pause, my eyes on Riley’s wood carving and my mind churning. If I can prove to Riley that he can make money from his carvings, maybe he won’t care so much about football. And then, maybe, we can find a way to make “whatever” into something real.
Gamma was all smiles with Riley a few days ago, but there are deep frown lines cupping her mouth today.
“Well, Lilah,” she says, sitting at the kitchen table surrounded by papers and bills. “I don’t see any way around it. I’m going to have to sell you to the gypsies to make ends meet.”
My grandmother delivers the old joke in perfect deadpan. It’s never made me laugh, but she keeps trying.
“Gamma, be serious. If we don’t rent that empty studio, we’ll be a couple hundred dollars short next month.” I look helplessly at the bills spread across the table.
“Oh, we’ll get someone soon. I put up an ad last week,” she says, getting up to refill our coffees.
“It could be months before we rent the space.” It has occurred to me that Riley might want a studio space, but not until the end of the football season. Not to mention that I would be violating a certain proverb about mixing business with pleasure.
The words “pleasure” and “Riley” are enough to spark memories. We went to the movies last night, but didn’t paid any attention whatsoever to the film. The mere thought of him was enough to make a sly grin break across my face. The things he had done to my body … well, I shouldn’t think about them in front of my grandmother.
With a bit of effort, I force my thoughts back to my impending financial ruin. Even with the money I’ve made from teaching, there still isn’t enough. “I’m so sorry, Gamma. I always assumed that I would keep selling paintings, which would mean there would always be money, but—”
“Oh, baby girl, hush,” she says, setting coffee in front of me. It’s doctored exactly how I like it. “Your creativity isn’t a cash cow to be milked. When you’re ready, you’ll paint again.”
“What if I don’t?”
Gamma shrugs as if I hadn’t just revealed my deepest fear. “Then I’ll get a job.”
“You know you can’t do that,” I protest. “With your heart, we can’t take any risks.”
Gamma settles into her chair with a little groan. “I’ve been getting better. Even the doctor says so.”
“Still.” I’ll never forget how scary it was, waiting in the hospital for someone to come tell me that my only family was dead. “I would rather you focus on getting better.”
“Lilah, I’ve been focusing on getting better for three years. I’ve lost weight, I’m eating healthier, and I’m taking my medications … I’ve even been doing yoga. I think it’s time I got a job.”
“You’re not going back to the restaurant.” Gamma had worked at a local steakhouse for nearly twenty years before the heart attack.
Gamma levels a look at me. No one tells that woman what to do. But after a moment, she sighs. “No, you’re right.” She fiddles with the spoon sitting in her coffee. “I’ve been thinking I would get my accounting degree online.”
I choke out a laugh. “Accounting?”
“I did the books at the restaurant for years,” she says defensively.
“Really? Why didn’t I know that?”
“I don’t tell you every little thing, my girl. Old Mr. Harold used to bang his head against the wall trying to figure them out, so I took over,” she says with a little smile. “And I’ve looked into it. My friend Gloria at the salon did her degree online and works from home now.”
“Well …,” I say slowly, mulling over everything in my head. For three years now, I’ve looked after my grandmother, worried about her. It’s not so easy to just stop.
“I’m not looking for permission, Lilah.”
Surprise has me sitting back in my chair. “Okay. Okay.” I’m still not so sure about this.
“Don’t worry so much, Lilah.” Gamma stacks the bills into a neat pile, like that’ll get them paid on time.
A sigh escapes me. “You always say that to me, but you never tell me how I’m just supposed to shut it off.”
“My darling girl. You don’t shut it off, you learn to live with it,” Gamma says with a sigh. “I still worry about your mother every day.”
My chin pokes out. “She doesn’t deserve one second of your attention.”
“I’ll stop worrying about her, if you stop worrying about me.”
The thought of Gamma wasting her energy worrying about my deadbeat mother rankles. But I have to admit that I couldn’t just switch off my love and worry about my grandmother, so I guess I can understand what she’s saying.
“Well, now, what is this?”
Gamma’s voice catches my attention. She’s bending over to pick up a slip of paper that evidently fell out of the stacks of bills. I recognize it in an instant: the sketch I’d done of Riley earlier while trying to concentrate on the bills. Clearly, I can’t get the man out of my head. That’s a whole other set of worries.
Gamma sits back and holds up the paper. “You captured him, that’s for sure.” She looks at me with a twinkle in her eyes. “He’s a cutie. You don’t often draw faces.”
“No,” I admit. Though I’d drawn Riley dozens of times now. I keep trying to capture this look in his eyes that makes me feel scared and safe all at once. “He’s … special.”
My grandmother hums. “How are things going with him?”
“We’re not dating,” I say quickly, wanting to keep her from fantasizing about a future that I’m not sure Riley and I can have. “We’re just … whatever.”
She fixes me with her sharp gaze. “You’re seeing him.”
“I guess. I don’t know. We haven’t labeled it.”
“Young people are idiots,” she says with a sigh. “Why is it such a big deal to admit that you like someone?”
“It’s not. I do. I do like him, I mean. I don’t know.” I blow out a breath. “It’s complicated. He’s not the sort of person I ever saw myself with.”
“And what does that mean?”
“I don’t know. You know how he made that wood carving in my room?”
“Yes.”
“I took it to Marty Carlson.”
Gamma quirks an eyebrow. “Whatever for?”
“Just to see,” I say with a shrug. “I thought, if he likes it, Riley might be convinced he has options other than playing football.”
Gamma folds her arms and purses her lips. “Did he give you permission?”
“I want to surprise him,” I say.
She sighs. “Some people would say that being a star player at a top-ranked school is pretty impressive.”
“I know, it is,” I say, propping my chin in my hand. “He works so hard. If he plays well this season, he could go to the NFL.”
“Honey. Why does that make you so miserable?”
“Can you see me dating an NFL player?” I say, gesturing at myself. “I’m not exactly trophy wife material.”
Gamma rears up like a rattler. “You are as beautiful as any woman on this earth, and twice as stylish.”
“That is clearly not true,” I say, laughing. “Beyoncé exists.”
Gamma ignores me. “Are you into this man?”
I shrug, not sure how to answer.
“What is stopping you from being into this man?”
“He’s a football player,” I say, standing up to carry our coffee mugs to the sink. I can’t sit still.
“So?”
“So,” I say, slamming the cups on the counter. “So, Natalie.”
“What about her?”
I bury my face in my hands. “She would hate me.”
Gamma comes up behind me and lays her hand on my back. “Lilah. Natalie loved you like a sister. Do you think she would want you to mourn forever?
”
I turn to face my grandmother, leaning on the counter. “There’s a difference between moving on and flat-out betrayal.”
Gamma nods, her eyes far away for a moment. “This Riley—did he have something to do with that?”
“No. He would never.” In the short time I’ve known him, I’m sure of that.
“Then there’s only one thing that matters here, Lilah. Does he make you happy?”
“Yes,” I blurt. “He’s—he makes me feel …. But isn’t that worse? That he should make me so happy when Natalie died in misery?”
My grandmother huffs. “I swear, if Natalie were here I’d cuff her upside the head.”
I gape at her, tears standing in my eyes. “You couldn’t.”
“I could, and I would. What happened to that girl wasn’t her fault, but letting it destroy her was. She didn’t live long enough to see those monsters in prison, or to help other girls who were assaulted. She let them win,” Gamma says fiercely, “and left you behind to try and make sense of things. That’s not fair.”
“She was hurting, and I didn’t do enough to help her,” I say, stunned. “She was lost.”
“And what are you supposed to do when you’re lost? You’re supposed to stay where you are and call for help,” my grandmother says decisively. She smiles sadly and softly touches my cheek. “Sweet child, I know all about regret, about wondering how you could have done things differently. I still can’t sleep sometimes thinking about how I could have done things differently with your mother. But if you let it, it’ll eat away at the core of you. And it sure seems to me like you are letting regret get between you and Riley.”
I study her face for a long moment. We share the same eyes, the same hair, the same chin. Someday, I hope I’m as wise as she is. “I don’t know if I can.”
“Then that’ll be your choice,” she says. She walks back to the table and picks up the sketch of Riley. “Football is part of his life. If you’re going to be in his life, you’re going to have to accept it.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Lilah
MY HEART IS POUNDING AS I ride my bike to the high-tech practice facility, and not just with the effort of pedaling. I can’t believe that I’m here, that I’m doing this.
Riley has mentioned, more than once, that today is something called the Blue and Silver game. It’s a Mustang tradition that includes a huge fundraiser for university donors and a showcase workout followed by a laid-back scrimmage that pits first-string offense against second-string defense and vice versa. According to Riley, it’s usually something of a party, but I can tell he’s worried. After the loss to Hawaii, he’s nervous the Blue and Silver game won’t do much to prove to potential donors the Mustangs are a team worth investing in.
I may not care about football, but I care how he feels. And though I’m nervous as hell to be showing up to a football event, if it’ll help Riley, I’m here.
And then I literally am here. The brand new practice facility looms before me, all steels pillars and high-reflective windows. I bite down annoyance that so much money is dumped on sports when other professors have to practically beg for supplies and updated technology. It cost well over a million dollars to build, and I can’t help thinking about all the students who didn’t get scholarships, the art and science programs that weren’t supported, so that MSU could build this monstrosity.
Not now, Lilah, I admonish myself. Gamma is right. Riley has done all the reaching so far in our relationship, all the compromising. I can’t keep asking him to deny this part of himself. It’s my turn to make a change.
My newfound determination to embrace football is challenged almost immediately by a guard.
“Miss?” He holds out an arm to stop me at the door. “I’m going to need to see your credentials.”
Credentials? This isn’t the White House. I chew on my lip before I realize I probably still have my teaching badge somewhere in my bag. Here I am, trying to make a romantic gesture, stymied by security. “Um … one second,” I stall, fishing a hand through the slurry of pencils and lipstick tubes at the bottom of my bag. Finally, I tug out my badge and hand it over, trying not to look guilty.
The guard scrutinizes it for a moment, his face hard as stone. “Miss, this isn’t sufficient.”
I’m about to argue when someone jogs up behind me, calling my name.
It’s Reggie, and he’s grinning ear to ear. “She’s with me. Aren’t you, Lilah?” says Reggie. He flashes a winning smile at the security guard. “Had to run out to my car to grab my lucky cleats.”
The guard’s face transforms when he sees Reggie. He goes from pit bull to puppy in a heartbeat. I have to restrain myself from rolling my eyes.
“Lilah here is from the art department,” Reggie says knowingly. “She’s here to study the human body in motion. Isn’t that right?”
“Uh, yeah,” I say, glancing at Reggie. Why is he helping me?
The guard opens the door for us, and Reggie ushers me through to a grand atrium. I stop dead in the middle of the entryway, stunned by the display of wealth around me. Marble floors, brass statues, deep leather seating, and half a dozen TVs showing historic MSU games. “This is where you guys practice?”
“It’s not much, but it’s home,” Reggie quips. “There’s facilities here for all the major campus sports, which means close to a thousand students use this building to practice year round.”
A thousand sounds like a lot, until you compare it to MSU’s entire student body. “Which means there are thirty thousand other students who never step foot in here,” I point out, failing to keep the acid out of my tone.
“True,” Reggie says, leading me deeper into the facility. “But how much do those students raise in donations every year? How much attention do they get from the alumni?”
“If they had the opportunity—”
“Where do you think those opportunities come from?” Reggie says, opening a heavy door. “The answer is—right here.”
The indoor field is bigger and brighter than I’d ever imagined, and right now it’s echoing with talk and laughter. There are people everywhere. Men wearing tailored suits chatting with men wearing sweats. Photographers and reporters are scattered around the field, keeping their eyes out for something interesting. And then there are the football players. There has to be at least a hundred of them, all wearing huge pads and blunt helmets and MSU jerseys.
I have a weird moment of dislocation. There’s me, with my mohawk and tattoos, wearing a sheer blue dress with a cream bodysuit beneath, in a room with all these clean-cut sports fans. What am I doing here?
Reggie points. “Riley’s over there.”
I follow Reggie’s finger, and although he’s wearing a helmet and pads, I recognize Riley instantly. Something about his long legs, his strong forearms. He’s running a drill that involves running patterns around a large pad. “I don’t want to see your feet cross over,” a man yells. “Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle!”
Riley runs out of the pattern as another player runs in, and I can see from his high knees and quick feet that he isn’t even close to tired yet. I know the exact moment he sees me. His chest lifts in surprise, and I feel a twin lift in me. Pleasure sparkles inside of me as my lips turn up into a smile. And I knew in that moment—that’s why I’m here. To feed the spark between me and Riley and see if it can grow.
“Ha! I thought so,” says Reggie, cuffing me lightly on the shoulder as if I were one of the guys.
“What?”
“I knew you were here to see Riley. The two of you were eying each other through every class.”
“We were not,” I reply weakly. “We’re just …,” I trail off, suddenly unable to speak. Riley has whispered to another player and is now jogging over. His uniform accentuates everything I love about his body—shoulders and thighs and arms all on display. “We were totally professional until ….”
“Until ….” Reggie pushes back his dreadlocks and grins. “Hey, whatever you two get up to d
oesn’t matter to me. All I know is, he’s been in a way better mood lately and an absolute beast on the field.”
Suddenly, I find myself liking Reggie more than ever before. “He has?”
Reggie just grins again. “I’ll see you later,” he says cheerfully, taking off just as Riley jogs up.
“Hey,” he says, surprise and pleasure clear in his voice. “I didn’t think I would see you.”
In his uniform and helmet, he looks even bigger than usual. “I just wanted to see how everything is going. And, you know, support you.” I feel almost shy, showing up on his turf like this.
His smile is clear, even behind his face mask. “Thank you,” he says sincerely. “I’m glad you’re here.”
He reaches out and runs one hand down my arm. Just that simple touch is enough to make heat rush through me. It’s probably some sort of arousal poisoning that makes me ask, “Can I stay and watch for a while?”
It doesn’t seem possible, but his grin gets even wider. “Sure. There’s a spot over there where you can sit.” He’s pointing to a few rows of bleachers on the sidelines where everyone is either wearing a uniform—football or cheerleading—or an MSU polo shirt. Whatever bravado I had left is fading fast, but one look at Riley’s eager face, and I know there’s no turning back.
I nod, becoming conscious that there are people watching us and no doubt wondering who Lotto Brulotte is talking to. “You should probably get back to it,” I say.
“Probably,” he says, tossing a glance over his shoulder. He looks like he wants to touch me again, instead jogs back a few steps, closer to the training field and the dozens of photographers and coaches watching us. He catches my eyes one last time before turning around. “Thank you for coming.”
The power of that look makes my knees watery as I walk over to the bleachers. I find a place to perch at the edge—easier to make a quick getaway if this all gets to be too much—and try to look like I belong here. But peering around, it’s so obvious that I don’t.
