by Mariah Dietz
“Final vacation rush,” Hannah says, heading to where we keep the large inventory of stamps we use in place of stickers to prevent trash.
Even better.
The four hours are swallowed faster than I’d expected, my thoughts of Lincoln and the regret and intrigue from last night only peppering my thoughts during the few brief lulls. Most of my time is spent preparing food for the animals with Jordan at my side, and the rest is spent answering questions and educating guests on the efforts we’re investing in to keeps oceans and rivers clean.
I find Mom in the kitchen, her hair haphazardly pulled back with a large claw, as she stares at an opened recipe book. She looks up as I get closer, her blue eyes shockingly wide. “Good. I need you. I need to quadruple this recipe.”
“Quadruple? How many are coming?”
She shakes her head. “Too many. Ready to start chopping?” Her gaze dances from mine to the produce covering the counter from the sink to the stove. “I didn’t use any of the clear plastic bags for produce. It earned me a stink eye from the lady who checked me out,” she tells me, pride reflecting in her tilted lips.
“Did you remember your reusable shopping bags?”
“And risk getting a forty-minute lecture from my favorite youngest daughter?” She staples her hands to her hips, but her gaze doesn’t provide the same level of confidence as she scans over the vegetables again.
“You forgot, didn’t you?”
Her hands slide from her waist, and her chin drops back. “I had them in the trunk. I tried.”
I shake my head, trying to hide the outline of a smile I feel my lips sliding into. “What do you want me to start with?”
She makes an apology with her face as she scrunches her nose. “Onions.”
“Pax owes me so big.”
She nods. “I told him he does.”
“Where is he?”
“Practice. But he’s coming over right after to help.”
Mom would do the same for me, so would my brother, and that knowledge leads me to the cutting board where I place the first of several onions and begin chopping while Mom prepares pans and then takes out her own cutting board and begins slicing peppers.
“I like your eyeliner,” Mom says.
“Do you? Dylan told me I looked like a raccoon,” I tell her, referring to Poppy’s little brother.
She tips her head back and laughs so hard her eyes close. “You know better than to listen to boys about fashion or beauty advice, especially ones who can’t drive.”
“I was concerned because it’s the ones too young to drive who are actually honest.”
Her laughter grows. “He only said it because it makes your eyes stand out. Trust me, it’s beautiful. Next time I have a board meeting, you’ll have to show me how.”
I nod. “It takes a few times to get the hang of it.”
“Is that your polite way of telling me it’s tougher than it looks?”
I try to hide my smile with a small shrug. Mom’s never worn much makeup. Blush, mascara, and a red tube of lipstick are her essentials. “I’m sure you can do it.”
“How much do you think they can eat? Do you think I should estimate each of them to eat a pound?” Her thoughts are scattered to hostess mode, something my mom takes very seriously as everyone who comes into our house always leaves with a full stomach. “Two?”
I shake my head. “I have no idea.”
“I should get more bread.” She sets her knife down.
“What? Are you really leaving?”
“I’ve only got six loaves.”
“Six?! Mom! You’ve lost your mind.”
“You and Pax eat an entire loaf,” she says.
“But we aren’t normal.”
She pauses, her eyes glazed with humor that makes her lips twitch. “Your words, not mine.”
I shake the smile off my face. “Believe me, we’ll have plenty.”
“I trust you. I just know these guys can eat, and they’ll be carb loading. I’ll be back.” She grabs her purse from the bar. “When you finish those peppers and the squash, you need to put them on the cookie sheets and roast them for thirty-five minutes. The oven’s already pre-heated.”
I don’t bother trying to argue with her again, knowing the words will be wasted. Instead, I point my knife at her. “Don’t forget your reusable bags. Put them in the passenger seat so you see them.”
She smiles. “You know me too well.”
I focus on finishing up the vegetables and trying to keep the concern of seeing Lincoln on the outskirts of my thoughts as the kitchen becomes far too quiet.
Why couldn’t I have just relaxed last night? There’s no way he sees me as anything but uptight after my reaction to him. I did the exact opposite of what I wanted to, and regardless of how many times I try to figure out why, I can’t.
A heavy sigh breaks through my lips as I run a clean towel over the counter, gathering the small vegetable debris into a pile.
“Hey!” Pax calls.
“Rae Rae!” Arlo follows him into the kitchen, a bright smile on his face, his brown hair combed to one side.
Behind him enters the guy who’s been peeling away each of my conscious thoughts—Lincoln. His brown eyes are carefully composed, watching me with so little emotion I can’t even begin to surmise his thoughts.
“Mom wasn’t kidding when she said I owed you,” Pax says. “What can we do? How can we help?”
I blink through the muddled thoughts that have tied my words into messy jumbles and focus on the pile of crumbs I was gathering. “I don’t know, honestly. I think we’re supposed to start on the sauce. Mom ran to the store. She was worried we wouldn’t have enough garlic bread.” I turn my back to them, moving to the cookbook Mom moved to the stand Paxton had bought her as a Mother’s Day gift several years ago. “We’re quadrupling the recipe,” I say absently as I scan over the directions.
Pax appears beside me, likely reading the text twice as fast as I am since the words aren’t digesting, my thoughts too scattered to absorb anything.
He grabs two large pans hanging over the island, setting them on the stove before turning toward the fridge. Pax, like Maggie and I, is proficient at cooking, a skillset my mom insisted we all learn and then was enforced when he moved out with three guys who didn’t know a spatula from an ice cream scoop.
“You coming to our game tomorrow?” Arlo asks.
It takes a few seconds too long to realize the question is aimed at me. And another moment to pull in enough breath to formulate a response. “Yeah. I’m going to be late, but I’ll be there.”
“Late?” Pax’s eyebrows lower.
“Work,” I say.
“Coffee shop?”
I nod.
“That place is dead after four. Get off early.”
He’s right, Beam Me Up is a ghost town most evenings. “Can’t. They’re running new specials to increase traffic in the evenings.”
“Your idea?” Pax asks.
“One I’m regretting. During the summer it seemed like a great idea, but now that I have homework, I’m realizing I should have just brought a book with me.”
Pax laughs, stirring the contents he’s poured into the two pans as Dad appears, a folded newspaper in his hand. He looks tired, wearing a pair of jeans and a cherry red hoodless Brighton U sweatshirt. His dark hair is silver around his sideburns and starting to weave through the top, more prominent in the beard he recently started to grow.
“You should double major in business,” he says. “You have a keen eye for the inner-workings of companies.”
I pull in a quick breath, looking skyward for a second to gain my patience. “I don’t want to run a business.”
“What if you ran the aquarium?” Dad counters, leaning on the bar near Paxton. “I’m just saying you should consider it. It would be a good backup plan in case you decide you want to try other things.”
“Aren’t you already taking a thousand credit hours?” Pax asks.
“She could fit in one more,” Dad says, grabbing a beer from the fridge.
I can’t, but admitting that makes me feel like I’m failing, and the year has only just begun, so instead, I pivot the conversation from my impending task list to Paxton’s game. “Tomorrow is Eastern Washington, right? They’re supposed to have a new defense model. I heard it was pretty good. Did you catch their scrimmage?”
Arlo scoffs. “No. They won’t even know what hit them. Their defense is cleaner, but we’ve got speed.”
Pax points his wooden spoon at Arlo. “Exactly. We’ve got speed, and they’ve got issues with their teammates, a war for starting quarterback has disrupted their offense. It’s going to be a cakewalk.”
“Being ranked in the top twenty-five poll you guys are going to get a lot of publicity media attention this year,” Dad says.
“Eastern Washington won’t know what hit ’em,” I say, sensing Paxton’s nerves. “They’re going to try and slow you down, but Arlo’s right. You guys have speed, and it will force them to play your game, which will create mistakes and tire them out.”
Dad snaps, pointing his beer in my direction. “Exactly. Make them play your game. Don’t play theirs.”
“Hey, Dad, what’s that on your face?” Pax asks. “It looks like you skinned a chipmunk and glued it to your face.” He reaches forward, trying to rub the scraggly hairs that Mom has been encouraging him to shave for several weeks.
Dad leans back, a playful smile pulling his cheeks northward as he rubs his nails against the rough hair. “Don’t be jealous of your old man.”
“Jealous?” Pax scoffs. “I was trying to give you some helpful advice before they put your face on TV tomorrow during the game.”
Dad runs his hand over his chin once more, then rubs along his neck which has been slightly red since he began growing the beard. “How’s school going for you, Lincoln? Your transcript’s impeccable. I think you’ll have your choice of law schools come next spring.”
Lincoln drops his head back, the movement so slight I doubt anyone would notice—anyone except those of us who are so well versed in his minor details that the movement seems significant, a population that’s larger than I like to consider and heavily female. He clears his throat. My eyes travel over his short hair, scanning over the gray hoodie that’s pulled up to his forearms, revealing corded muscles and roped veins that make my heart accelerate and my mind race. “That would be an ideal opportunity.”
Dad nods. “Absolutely. You’re on the right track.” He raises his beer. “You guys help yourself to anything to drink. I’ve got to get some work in.” He spins, making his way down the hall in the direction of his office, a space that was added to the house a few years ago when my parents graduated from only ever having enough money to make ends meet to having more than they’d ever had plus a cushion.
“I should get some homework done. You have everything covered?” I ask, glancing at Paxton.
“I think so.”
“Mom should be back any minute.” I glance at the clock confirming the fact.
“Need a study buddy?” Arlo asks. “I’ll tutor you in exchange for—”
Pax points the wooden spoon at him again. “Finish that sentence, and you’re going to be limping tomorrow.”
Arlo chuckles playfully, loving the response he evokes so easily with minimal effort.
The doorbell rings before he can add more fuel to the fire, and I take the distraction as an excuse to make a quick exit to the confines of my room where I instantly struggle with a new wave of regret for taking the excuse to be alone when every cell in my body wishes to remain near Lincoln.
My bright yellow volunteer shirt catches my eye in the thick-framed mirror that hangs near my closet, making me cringe as I take in my reflection. I’m still in my clothes from the aquarium, my hair pulled back into a pony that makes me look young and tomboyish. I toss the tee into my hamper and grab a simple gray T-shirt that gathers on one hip. Gray is the starring color of my wardrobe, a hue that often reflects my thoughts and mood as I struggle to ever be on one side of the line or the other, preferring to stay safely in the middle.
Laughter filters up the stairs and through my closed bedroom door, feeding my curiosity and the desire to go back downstairs. I shut it out with my earbuds, flipping on a playlist Maggie sent me recently. I grab my books and sit at my desk, trying to make progress in the heap of homework and reading assignments that have me considering dropping a class.
7
My door opens, Mom appearing with a guilty smile, her steps cautious, making me lose my place in the zoology textbook I’ve been reading.
I pull out an earbud. “Hey.”
“You mind helping us get everything pulled together?”
“I thought we had another thirty minutes?”
She begins to answer then stops, staring at my opened textbook and laptop. “Since when do you do your homework on Friday nights? Are you feverish?” She walks to the bed and places a palm on my forehead.
I bat her away, threatening to add more hours to the time she owes me because I can’t think of a sound excuse.
“Come on,” she tells me. “I left your brother, Arlo, and Lincoln to finish plating things.” She tilts her head in the direction of the door. “Plus, you’ll want to grab some food before the vultures eat it all.”
I free my other earbud and slowly stand, my muscles eager to move after being stooped over my desk for the past hour. I follow Mom down the stairs and into the kitchen.
“Rae, will you get the bread baskets for Lincoln?” Mom asks. “And then if you’ll set some napkins out?” She doesn’t wait for me to reply, moving to the table where she maneuvers the extra mismatched chairs around the table again like if she keeps trying, she’ll be able to stretch the table. As she moves, she sings to the rock song playing, butchering the lyrics and laughing when Paxton yells over her with the correct version.
There are fourteen coaches and one-hundred-and-eleven players on Brighton’s football team. Of those, fifty-five players generally see the field each game, and Pax invited ten of them and the entire coaching staff to our house tonight.
When Mom had told me the number, it bothered me. It seemed elitist and wrong to not invite everyone. Maybe it’s because I’m the youngest and was often too young to do the things Maggie could, and, well, too much of a girl to do what Paxton wanted, which was always football. Mom wouldn’t let me play, afraid I’d get hurt and dressed me in skirts and dresses as though it would stop me. Dad agreed, saying I was too small. Pax didn’t want me to play either, originally. It wasn’t until they were a kid short that he lied and told Mom we were going to walk down to the corner market for bubble gum and candy that he took me to play in my first football scrimmage where I did get hurt. Bobby Meyers from down the street tackled me to the ground right as I passed into the end zone, and Pax had to help me clean a sheath of gravel from my shin, but he let me play again the next day, and for the next several years I played with them, learning the rules and setup of the game. I know how hard each of the hundred and eleven players had to work to get on the football team, and each time they don’t get invited to celebrations like this, my heart goes out to them knowing exactly how they must feel because, after years of playing football with my brother and his friends, many have forgotten that I scored multiple wins and was easily the fastest player on the field. And when Mom and Dad learned that I was playing football rather than going to the park next to the field and demanded I stop playing, not one of them had my back to say I was as good as any boy. They just whined because they were down a player.
I push those memories into the cupboard where I withdraw the two large bread baskets we only use on holidays and move over to grab the linens that go inside of each. Careful to keep a wide gap between Lincoln and me, I reach for the pile of sliced garlic bread. Lincoln glances at me, his brown eyes mesmerizing as they quickly dart across my face. “Hey,” he says.
Rule number seven for not dating your best
friend’s brother: I want to date someone who I can have in-depth and meaningful conversations with, and when I’m around Lincoln Beckett, I can’t think straight. When he licks his lips in a benign gesture, all I can imagine is him licking my neck, growling in my ear when I stood frozen in place like a mannequin. I remind myself to breathe through my nose because I suddenly want to gasp for breath, but work to refrain from being a mouth breather. “Hey.” I try to smile, noting how many muscles have to comply with the gesture.
“How was the party last night?” He holds my gaze, the ghost of a smile on his features.
I shrug, matching his stare. “Honestly, I expected more.”
His head cocks to one side, his smile spreading. “How are classes going? I didn’t hear what you’re taking this semester.”
In all reality, he knows very little about me, and the same goes for my knowledge about him. This is why I know my infatuation with him has to end this year—it’s nothing more than a physical crush, which makes me equally as shallow as those guys at the party calling out to girls who giggle and show their boobs.
Pax palms the top of my head, rifling my hair and deserving the elbow I throw into his gut. “Nerd classes,” he says.
“Misogyny isn’t a good look for you, Pax.” Mom gives a leveling glare, her feminist hat securely in place, though it was absent for those years I wanted to play football.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Pax says. “She knows I’m just giving her a hard time.”
I could kill them both from drawing every eyeball in the room to me.
“He’s just jealous,” Arlo counters. “He got the height genes but none of the brains.”
Pax grabs a sports drink from the bar and chucks it at Arlo, who catches it without hesitation, a laugh already spilling from his lips. “Don’t make me choose because I’ll always choose Rae Rae.” He winks at me. Arlo stayed with us the summer between their freshman and sophomore years in order to stay and commit to the practice schedule. In those few months, Arlo and I built a friendship I appreciate far more than I’d expected to.
