Holding On

by Allie Everhart

  "You don't have to pay me."

  "You're my guest. I'm supposed to provide the food."

  "Any requests?"

  "I'd take some soda. And maybe some ice cream sandwiches? I've been craving ice cream sandwiches."

  "I love ice cream sandwiches."

  "Then get a couple boxes. We can each have our own."

  "I don't need my own box. I'll only eat one."

  "Get two anyway. That way we'll have plenty for next time you're here."

  "Okay. I'll see you soon."

  She just agreed to hang out with me again, not explicitly, but it was implied, which explains why I'm still smiling even after she hangs up.

  In the afternoon, I don't drift off to sleep like I normally do because I'm actually looking forward to something for a change. Even though I just saw her, I can't wait to see her again.

  She shows up a little before five, four grocery sacks in hand.

  "How much did you buy?" I follow her to the kitchen. She's wearing a white tank top and red shorts. As she walks, I can't keep my eyes off that hot little ass of hers. She has a damn nice body.

  "I bought more than just snacks. As long as I was at the store, I figured I'd buy some other stuff too." She pulls out a loaf of bread, some deli meat, a bag of apples. "I tried not to spend too much."

  "Don't worry about it. It's my parents' money, not mine, and trust me, they have plenty."

  "Since you never told me what to get, I had to guess."

  "You didn't have to do my grocery shopping."

  "I didn't have a choice. Your fridge looked lonely. It needed some food."

  I chuckle. "You were worried about the mental state of my fridge?"

  "And its efficiency. Cooling appliances like refrigerators and freezers are most efficient when they're full." She takes the ice cream sandwiches from the sack and puts them in the freezer, which was empty.

  "I didn't know you were such a wealth of knowledge. What other facts do you have to share?"

  "That's it for now. I share them only when relevant. Nobody likes a know-it-all."

  She's cracking me up today. She was more serious last night. And really serious when I first met her. I like that she's loosening up around me. I'm loosening up around her too.

  She unloads a bag of oranges and places them in the fridge.

  "What's with all the healthy food?" I ask.

  "You're an athlete. Don't athletes eat healthy?"

  "Yeah, but we also eat junk food. And I'm not currently in training so I eat whatever I want."

  "Eating well will help you heal. Oranges have vitamin C, which is good for rebuilding collagen."

  "Another fact," I say. "And appropriately relevant to our discussion."

  She looks back at me and smiles. "I learned that one in nursing school."

  "When do you think you'll go back?"

  She shrugs. "I'm not sure. Maybe next spring." She unloads the last sack, which contains a bag of chips and some candy bars. "Here's your junk food. Oh, I forgot your pop. I'll be right back."

  I hate that I'm not able to help her. I feel so useless in this chair. But I can at least order the pizza. As she's coming back with the soda, I get my phone out.

  "What kind of pizza you want?"

  She sets the soda down on the counter. "Anchovies and pineapple."

  "Um, okay," I say, thinking that's the most disgusting sounding pizza I've ever heard of. What would prompt someone to even try that combination?

  She starts laughing. "Ethan, I'm kidding."

  I let out a sigh of relief. "Good, because I don't think I could even stand the smell of that. Anchovies and pineapple?" I shudder. "Sounds horrible. So what kind do you really want?"

  "Pepperoni." She pops open a can of soda.

  "Want anything else on it? Peppers? Mushrooms?"

  "No, just pepperoni, unless you want other stuff on it."

  "I'm getting two so we can each have what we want."

  I call in the order. It's nice to be ordering for two instead of one. It's also nice to be eating a meal with someone. I honestly hadn't realized how lonely I was until Becca and I started hanging out.

  "Back to work tomorrow?" I ask as we wait for the pizza.

  "Yeah. On Mondays I clean three houses and they're all pretty large so it takes forever." She sits down on one of the stools at the breakfast bar.

  "What time do you get off?" I ask because I want to see her again tomorrow. I know that's asking a lot but she can always say no.

  "I get off around four but then I have to go to my other job."

  "I didn't know you had another job. Where do you work?"

  She hesitates. "If I tell you, you can't laugh."

  "Why would I laugh?"

  "Because it's kind of embarrassing, especially the uniforms."

  "Huh," I say to myself, thinking about what this place might be. "You have to wear a uniform that could be considered embarrassing."

  She smiles. "Correct."

  "Are you a clown?" I pretend to be serious.

  Laughing, she says, "No, I'm not a clown. Guess again."

  "Do you work at that movie theater downtown dressed up as a container of popcorn?"

  That actually is a real job. The theater pays someone to stand outside dressed as a bucket of popcorn.

  "No, that's not it. But you're getting closer. It does involve food."

  "Are you a waitress?"

  "Yes. Do you want me to just tell you?"

  "Yeah, go ahead."

  "I work at The Chicken Shack. It's on the east side of town."

  "Yeah, I know where it is. I love that place."

  "You do?"

  "I haven't been there forever but I love their chicken. But I don't remember what the waitresses wear."

  "We have to wear these red and white checkered dresses that look like tablecloths and these goofy chicken hats. But we only wear the chicken hats when we know the district manager is coming to visit. The local manager doesn't make us wear them, thank God. The hats look ridiculous and they never stay on."

  I'm trying to imagine her in a chicken hat. I bet she looks freaking adorable. She could make anything look good.

  "How often do you work there?"

  "Every night, but only during the week. I get weekends off unless I need to fill in for someone."

  "You work all day cleaning, then waitress at night? You must be exhausted."

  "Sometimes I am, but for the most part, I'm used to it. After a while you don't notice how tired you are. It just becomes your routine and you don't think about it."

  "Kind of like me and football. I train hard for hours a day, which most people would think is crazy, but to me it's normal. It's what it takes to get ahead."

  Closing the fridge, she turns to me, seeming hesitant.

  "What is it?" I ask. "You look like you want to ask me something."

  "I was just wondering when you have to start training again. I mean, are you..." She trails off, but I know what she was about to say.

  "Going to play football again?"

  "Never mind." She turns away and gets some glasses from the cupboard.

  "It's okay to ask. Doesn't mean I'll answer. The truth is, I don't have an answer. Until my leg heals, it's hard to say."

  "Do the doctors know how long it'll take to heal?"

  "Not really. It depends on how the bone heals."

  "So you can't play this season."

  "Probably not, but we can always hope for a miracle." I strain to smile because I doubt that miracle is coming. There's no way I could play this season. Practice starts in a few weeks and I'm still in a damn wheelchair.

  "But you're obviously still working out." Her eyes go to my arms, which have benefited from all the weight lifting I've been doing. I've got all freaking day to work out, so my chest, abs, and arms are more ripped than they ever were before.

  "Is that a compliment?" I smile, easily this time.

  A hint of pink tints her cheeks. "It was just an observat
ion."

  Lifting up my shirt, I point to my chest. "Since the accident, I've spent a lot of time working my upper body."

  Her eyes are fixated on my abs, a chiseled eight pack that even I'm impressed with. It shows what repeated and focused workouts can do.

  I lower my shirt. "I showed you mine, you show me yours."

  She laughs. "Nice try."

  "You work out?"

  "My two jobs are a workout, but sometimes I walk just to clear my head. My brother works out all the time. He has a set of weights in our apartment but I never use them. Speaking of Mike, I think he might have a new girlfriend soon." She says it in a hushed, excited tone. "We met her this morning when the fire alarm went off and we were all stuck outside."

  "Did he ask her out?"

  "No, but I think he will. At least I'm hoping he will. He's been hung up on his ex for months. He needs to move on, and he seems to really like this new girl."

  "How about you? Any exes you haven't gotten over? Or are you in a relationship now?"

  It's bold to ask but I need the answer. And I think she knows why. I'm not exactly hiding the fact that I like her.

  "Nope. I'm single. No boyfriend. No exes I'm pining over. How about you?"

  "I don't have a boyfriend either." I grin.

  She rolls her eyes. "Smart ass. You know what I mean."

  "The answer is no. I don't have a girlfriend."

  She grabs two sodas from the fridge and hands me one. "Have you ever had a girlfriend?"

  "I've had several. Why?"

  She shrugs. "Not that I believe rumors, but the rumor around town is that you don't date a girl long enough for her to be your girlfriend."

  "That's somewhat true, but it's not because I don't want a girlfriend. It's because my future is up in the air. I don't know what I'll be doing after graduation or where I'll be moving so it doesn't really make sense to get into a serious relationship right now."

  Becca nods. Then she turns away and finds some plates in the cupboard.

  Shit. I think I just screwed this up. I was trying to be honest with her but will what I said make her not want to go out with me?

  The doorbell rings. Becca sets the plates down. "That was fast. I'll go get it."

  "Grab the money. It's in the drawer." I point to it. She opens the drawer and takes out a couple twenties, then goes and gets the pizzas from the guy.

  While she's at the door, Jackson calls.

  "Hey, man," he says when I answer. "How's your weekend going?"

  "Good. Hey, I can't talk right now. I've got company."

  "Company? Who's over there?"

  "A friend."

  "A female friend?" He chuckles.

  "Yeah. I gotta go."

  "Do I know this female friend?"

  "No, you don't know her."

  "Is she one of the cheerleaders?"

  I've dated several of the team's cheerleaders so it wouldn't be surprising if one of them came to town and showed up here. I had a friends-with-benefits arrangement with a couple of them.

  "She's not a cheerleader. I told you you don't know her."

  "How'd you meet her?"

  "Seriously, dude. Enough with the questions. I gotta go."

  "Have fun tonight." He laughs.

  As I put my phone down, Becca returns with the pizzas and sets them on the counter. She opens one of the boxes. "No anchovies?" She frowns. "I told you I wanted anchovies."

  Knowing she's kidding, I say, "Have you ever even had anchovies?"

  "No." She makes a face. "Gross."

  "I had them once. Never again."

  "What else don't you like?"

  I pause to think. "Sweet pickles. Even just the smell of them makes me gag."

  "Me too!" She laughs. "They're so disgusting, but my dad used to love them so he'd add them to everything. Tuna salad. Egg salad. Chicken salad. Pretty much any kind of salad. Once he added sweet pickle relish to meatloaf without telling me and I almost threw up."

  "At least he made dinner. My parents have never made me a meal."

  "Never?"

  "They'd heat stuff up, but I don't consider that cooking. They have a chef who comes to the house every Sunday and makes meals for the week that just have to be heated. But the food rarely gets eaten. Even when I was a kid, we usually ate out, or if my parents worked late, I'd just eat cereal for dinner."

  "Did your parents work a lot?"

  "All the time, including weekends. They're workaholics." I point to the pizza. "We should eat before the pizza gets cold."

  She hands me a plate. "You want to eat outside?"

  "We can, but it's kind of hot out." I point to my leg. "The cast gets really hot in the sun."

  "Oh, sorry, I wasn't even thinking about that. We'll eat in here."

  "So tell me," I say once we're seated at the table. "What's it like working at The Chicken Shack?"

  She laughs. "Crazy. But I like working there. Our singing cook, along with some of the oddball customers that come in, keeps things interesting. I never get bored, that's for sure."

  "Now that you mention it, I do remember the singing cook. Why exactly does he sing?"

  "It's just what he likes to do. It makes him happy."

  "Well, whatever works."

  "What makes you happy?" she asks, before biting into her pizza.

  I stare at her, surprised by the question and the way she asked it, as if it was just a typical question, like asking me to name my favorite movie. That would be easy. Friday Night Lights.

  But this question? What makes me happy? It's a question I've never been asked. One I've never even asked myself.

  "Ethan?"

  I look up and see her smiling. God, she has a beautiful smile.

  "Did you hear me?" she asks.

  "Yeah." But I don't have an answer to give her. How messed up is that? I don't even know what the fuck makes me happy.

  "Is it football? Does playing football make you happy?"

  "It used to, but now...I don't really know."

  "Because of your leg," she says, assuming that's the reason. "You're worried you might not be able to play anymore. But isn't it too soon to tell? I mean there's still a chance—"

  "That's not it." I set my pizza down and gaze down at the table, my heart beating fast at the thought of admitting this. Because if I admit it, then what the fuck have I been doing with my life? Has it all been just a giant waste of time?

  She's quiet, waiting for me to continue. But do I? Do I tell her how I feel? I barely know her. So why would I share something so personal? I won't even tell my own parents this. Or Jackson, one of my closest friends. Or Coach, who's been like a father to me since freshman year.

  "It's not football." There. I said it. And shit, it felt good to finally admit that.

  "Then why do you do it?"

  "Because I'm good at it," I say, keeping my eyes on the table. "I'm really fucking good at it."

  "But it doesn't make you happy."

  "It used to. When I first starting playing, I loved it. But then..." I take a breath.

  "Then what?"

  "Then I got good at it. And people noticed. My dad noticed." I feel a lump forming in my throat and try to cough it away. I pick up my soda and gulp it down.

  "Your dad's a sports agent, right?"

  "Yeah. And sometimes I think..." This is hard to say but I do it anyway. "Sometimes I think he wants me more as a client than as a son."

  My heart's pounding even harder. I can't believe I just admitted that. Out loud. To a girl I just met.

  Her hand reaches over and lands on my forearm. "I'm sorry."

  I just nod.

  We sit in silence for a moment, then her hand slides back to her side of the table. "Parents can be assholes sometimes."

  For some reason that makes me laugh. I look up and see her laughing too.

  After our laughter subsides, I say, "Your dad didn't sound like an asshole."

  "He wasn't. He was great. But my mom is an asshole. Or wh
atever term fits a person who abandons her family and cares only about herself."

  This time, I'm the one who reaches over and puts my hand over hers. "I'm sorry."

  She shrugs. "What are you going do? You can't change them. My mom will always be that way and it sounds like your dad's not going to change."

  "No, definitely not. He lives for his job. It's what defines him. He only got married and had a kid because he thought it would advance his career. Make him look compassionate, stable. Someone parents of a young athlete headed for the pros would trust with their kids' career. And it worked. My dad's a huge success."

  "But he's not a father."

  "He pretends to be when other people are around. But close the door and I become just a bunch of dollar signs. An investment he made that he's waiting to collect on. He spent a lot of money getting me the best coaches, sending me to the top training camps, doing everything possible to make sure I was the best. And now it's time for me to pay him back by making the pros and giving him a cut of the profits."

  "So growing up, football became less about having fun and more about pleasing your dad."

  Goddamn, she actually gets it. It took me years to figure that out.

  "It was the only time he paid attention to me," I say. "The only time he said anything positive to me."

  "And now?"

  "Now I'm an investment that went bad. He's hoping his investment will recover and go on to make him millions of dollars but if it doesn't—if I'm not able to play again—then he'll cut me out of his life. Pretend I don't exist."

  "That's a lot of pressure."

  "Yeah."

  I feel her looking at me but I can't look back. I bared my soul just now and I'm afraid to see her expression. I'm afraid of what she thinks of me after I told her all that.

  "I did the same thing," she says.

  Her statement intrigues me and I force my eyes back to hers. Her expression is one of understanding, not judgmental in any way. My heart rate slowly returns to normal and I feel a calmness come over me. I'm relieved she didn't ask me to explain myself even more. It was hard enough saying what I said. I don't want to be questioned about it. I'm still not even sure why I said it. Maybe because I sensed that she wouldn't judge me. That she's not that type of person. And that maybe she'd understand. From her comment, it sounds like maybe she does.

  "What do you mean?" I ask.