“Dad? You know how you said I should consider al options?”
“Yep,” he says, peering up from the sports’ section of the
Tennessean
.
“I was wondering…if maybe you can…maybe you could…help me come up with some other options?”
Dad sets the newspaper down on his desk, leans back in his chair, and stares up at the ceiling. A smile blooms.
“Let me see what I can come up with.”
•••
“But I don’t get it,” Ty says, laughing and running a hand across his jaw.
“I think you’re great, and I real y love hanging out with you—”
“You’re breaking up with me?”
“Yes.” I reach out and touch his arm, and he shakes his head.
“That doesn’t make any sense. Every girl at Hundred Oaks wants to go out with me…and you’re breaking up with me?”
“I’m sorry—”
“Is this because of Henry?” he asks, confusion creeping across his face.
“No, it’s real y not. You’re great—I just know you’re not the right guy for me. And it’s not fair to either of us.”
“Look, I’m sorry I asked you to give up footbal . It was stupid of me.”
“No, I get that you’re scared of what might happen to me…to anyone you care about. I understand everything you’ve been through.”
“Is this because I’m a better footbal player?”
“Jesus, Ty,” I say with a laugh. “Sometimes you just aren’t supposed to be with someone. You can’t control everything, no matter how much you want to.”
And even if Henry doesn’t want to talk to me, I can stil talk to him.
•••
After school on Monday, I hobble over to Henry’s rusty maroon truck, being careful to mind my knee, and tuck a note under his windshield wiper.
Dear Sam—I’m here. Whenever you’re ready. Love, Jordan
On this lame Friday afternoon, I’m lying on my bed, alternating between fiddling with the plastic footbal charm and writing in my journal. I write: No best friend + no boyfriend = no plans and no life Neither of my parents has mentioned my breakup with Ty except to say they’re stil going to help him get through col ege, and Mom wil keep taking Vanessa on shopping trips because she doesn’t trust Ty or his grandfather with such an important responsibility.
Henry? Wel , after I left him the note, several strange gifts started showing up. Like a giant stuffed panda holding a bag of chocolate-chip cookies.
I devoured the cookies in about two minutes, but why the hel would he get me a panda?
In retaliation for the stupid panda, I cal ed Marie and Carrie, and together, we dressed the thing up in girly clothes and smeared makeup on it.
Then we wrote Henry’s name on its white fur in lipstick and put it out in front of the school. Pretty lame, I know, but it actual y made Henry laugh when he saw it. I spied on him from a window.
Then, the other night, Chinese food was delivered with a special fortune cookie. A handwritten fortune taped to the plastic read, “I’m sorry, Woods.” So I tried to cal and thank him, but he didn’t pick his phone up. Of course.
In response, I had a pizza delivered to him with a message that read, “I forgive you. Stop being a bonehead” in olives. Apparently, my message barely fit on an extra large pizza! Man, Henry
hates
olives.
Then yesterday, a deck of cards, a pair of salt and pepper shakers, and a blank journal showed up outside the door to my room. I love the new journal—it’s leather bound and the paper smel s wonderful. And it makes me feel good, that maybe my interest in writing isn’t total y lame, that I can be publicly proud of myself for something other than footbal .
But why can’t the boy just freaking talk to me? Why al the covert shit?
My dad pokes his head in my room. “Can I come in?”
I hide my journal under the pil ow and pick up my footbal . “Sure,” I reply, sitting up.
“How’s the knee feel?”
“Not bad.”
“Let me see you extend it,” Dad says, picking up my right foot and pushing and pul ing my leg in and out several times. “Good. You’re healing up nicely.”
“Thanks.” I drop my foot back on the bed and start tossing my bal .
“What are you doing this weekend?” Dad asks.
“No plans.”
“How about taking a little trip with me? I don’t have a game on Sunday.”
“Where are we going? The beach? God, I could so use some heat and some fresh air.”
Dad sits on my bed with me. “I was thinking Michigan.”
“Michigan?” I say, sticking out my tongue. “It’s colder there than it is here! Why the hel would we go there?”
“You wanted other options, right?”
“Yeah…”
“Look, I know I can’t stop you from playing bal in col ege, but if you’re going to play, I want you to go someplace where you’l be taken care of.”
“Like where?”
Dad takes a deep breath. “Want to take a trip up to Michigan State with me? Their head coach is interested in you. He’s an honest guy—I played against him in col ege.”
I laugh loudly. When I said options, I meant Florida or Ole Miss or Tennessee, even. “Give up Alabama for Michigan State? Are you freaking kidding me?”
“Jordan—if you go to Alabama, I know you’l be doing great things like the charity program with foster kids. There’s no guarantee you’l ever actual y hit the field, but there’s a 100 percent chance they’re going to make you do stuff like model for their calendar.”
I nod, clutching my pil ow. “Michigan State would actual y let me play?”
“As long as you keep playing like you are now, yes.” Dad smiles. “They’ve seen some of your tapes.”
“Do you think the guys on the team wil be sexist?”
Dad laughs. “Probably. But there, at least you’l get to play. And the coach promised me you won’t be paraded around like a piece of meat.”
“That’s good to hear.”
Dad musses my hair. “So, what do you say? Can we at least go talk to the Michigan State coach? Maybe throw a bal around with some of his wide receivers?”
“Let’s do it. When do we leave?”
“We can leave now. Get your bags packed. Bring some cleats.” Dad stands up and walks out the door, but then pokes his head back in. “By the way, we’re taking Henry with us. He doesn’t know it yet, but we’re going to stop by the University of Michigan too. I told his mom to keep him home until we get there.” Dad grins.
I drop the suitcase I just pul ed out of the closet. “Henry?” I say, gasping. “I’m not going anywhere with Henry.”
“Yes—you are. Henry has worked too hard and too long on getting into Michigan to blow it now. He deserves this. And you and I are going to support him.”
I nod and avert my eyes, which are starting to tear up again.
Dad sighs. “Why can’t you and Henry work through whatever has been going on since September?”
“You should talk to him about this, Dad. Not me. I’ve been ready to work through it for weeks and weeks.”
Dad shuts the door, comes back in, and picks up the footbal , twirling it in his hands. “What happened exactly?”
“What? You don’t know?”
“Nope.”
“Honest to God?”
“Honest to God.”
I touch the plastic footbal charm. “Did you know that Henry liked me? As, um, more than a friend?”
“Sure. Who didn’t?”
“Me.”
“Wel , we al thought you weren’t interested.”
This conversation with Dad is going far better than I ever could’ve imagined. Who is this strange Donovan Woods impersonator? “When I found out that Henry likes me, wel liked me, as more than a friend, I went to him. I told him I was up for it. For trying…you know…to have a relationship?”
Dad nods.
“He said we couldn’t date, but that we would stil be friends. But he got weird anyway. He got mad about Ty and said some mean things. He never stopped to think about how much he was hurting me.”
“What did he say about Ty?”
I can’t tel Dad about how Ty didn’t want me and Henry sharing a bed, so I say, “I told Henry that I couldn’t do something with him because I was going to hang out with Ty. Then he said al this crap about Ty trying to control everything, and that I let everyone control me, which is probably true, but Henry just went nuts, Dad.”
“Sounds like Henry was jealous. His pride was hurt. So he acted like an ass. Every guy does that from time to time.”
“I get that. But I’ve been trying to make up, but he doesn’t even return my cal s.”
Dad twirls the bal again. “So do you stil like him?”
“I loved the old Henry. I barely know this new Henry.”
“So it sounds like even if you went to him and told him how much you love him, it wouldn’t matter, right?”
“Right. ’Cause I already tried. Doesn’t that suck?”
Dad smiles. “A wise man once said, ‘Nothing takes the taste out of peanut butter quite like unrequited love.’”
“Who the hel said that? Gandhi?”
Dad laughs. “Charlie Brown.”
“I thought comics were supposed to be funny.”
Dad tosses the bal to me. “One thing I learned a long time ago is that even if you think you’re meant to be with someone, that doesn’t necessarily mean you
get
to be with them.”
Sighing, I laugh. “You’re depressing too, Dad.” Thinking of Mom, I say, “Does that mean you, uh, didn’t marry the person you wanted to be with?”
“Of course I married the right girl. It just took a while to get her attention. Why the hel would a woman like your mom be interested in a jerk like me?”
I smirk. “There is that.”
Dad picks up a picture of me and Henry from the shelf, a picture taken at Lake Jordan when we were thirteen. In the photo, I’m grinning at a trout I’ve just caught. And Henry’s smiling at me.
“For what it’s worth,” Dad says, running his fingers over the picture, “I’ve never seen anyone run faster than Henry after you hurt your knee last week.”
We pul up in front of Henry’s trailer, and Dad goes inside. A few minutes later, he comes out pul ing a struggling Henry by an elbow and stuffs him in the back of the Audi.
“Yo, Woods.” With dark circles under his eyes, Henry seems miserable.
“Hi, Henry.”
“How’s the knee?”
“Better, thanks.”
And that’s al we say the entire way to the airport. Dad has chartered a private jet to Ann Arbor so he doesn’t have to “deal with the masses” on a commercial flight. On the plane, Dad makes us play a game of Monopoly with him and I kick ass, buying up Park Place, Boardwalk, and al those green properties that are worth a shitload. After Henry lands on Boardwalk, where I’ve just built a hotel, he has to mortgage his lame purple and orange properties. I giggle maniacal y. Henry shakes his head at me and pouts. But now that we’re actual y playing a game together, I’ve seen smiles trickle across his face a few times.
After checking into the hotel, where Dad has reserved three rooms for us, he tel s us we’re going out to dinner with the University of Michigan head coach.
I throw my suitcase on the bed, unzip the bag, and pul out this new dress Carrie and Marie helped me buy, this black sweater skirt thing with short sleeves, and pair it with black boots. I want to look pretty for Henry because tonight is important for him, so I also put on some mascara and lip gloss.
I’m brushing my hair as my phone rings. I check the cal er ID. Ty. I pul a deep breath and answer.
“Hey, Woods,” he says.
I clear my throat. “Hey. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah.” His voice sounds fine. Upbeat. “What are you doing?” he asks, so I tel him about the impromptu trip to Michigan, which surprises him.
“What about Alabama?”
I tel him it’s probably not the right school for me, which surprises him more. “Dad thinks Michigan State might be a good fit for me.”
“That’s great,” Ty says. “Text me after you meet the coach—I want to know how it goes. Michigan State’s a great program.”
I smile at my reflection in the mirror. “So what’s up?”
“Your brother cal ed and asked if I want to come to a party tomorrow night in Knoxvil e. You know, after his game against LSU?”
“Yeah.”
“And I just wanted to see if that’s okay with you. I mean, that I’m hanging out with your bro—”
“Definitely,” I say, stil smiling.
“We’re friends, right?”
“I hope so.”
“There might be girls at the party. I, um—” Ty pauses to cough.
I had wondered, if I found out Ty was dating someone else, if my heart would lurch, but it’s stil . “Have a great time. We’re cool.”
I’m glad he’s wil ing to have fun, to let go, even if it’s only one night. Maybe he’l relax a bit.
I chat with Ty for a few more minutes, arguing over who’l win in Sunday’s Colts-Texans matchup, and I tel him to hang close to my brother at the party and to steer clear of Jake Reynolds and al his possibly STD-ridden minions.
Someone knocks on the door, so I grab my coat and wal et, and step out into the hal , finding Henry standing there in a suit and blue tie, which brings out the aqua flecks in his green eyes. I’ve never seen him so dressed up before.
Smiling, I say, “Damn, Henry, you clean up wel .”
He smiles back at me. “I know, right?”
I rol my eyes. “Ready to go?”
“Yup.” Henry ushers me toward the elevator. From the corner of my eye, I see him looking me up and down. “You look real y pretty.”
Outside the hotel, we hop into Dad’s town car and head to some fancy French restaurant where I won’t know what anything on the menu is. Too bad Carter’s not here.
The restaurant is dark and romantic and ful of flowers, and I find myself wishing it was just me and Henry here, huddled over wine and champagne and crêpes or some shit like that. As we walk beneath beautiful chandeliers, alongside a wal made up of mirrors, my hand moves without permission, linking with Henry’s.
“Thanks, Woods,” he says, taking a deep breath.
He keeps holding my hand as we approach our table, where two men are waiting for us. They introduce themselves as the head and offensive coaches for the University of Michigan. After introductions, we sit down and I have a fit trying to decide what to order because it’s al in French.
Fol owing a bunch of smal talk about the university and the Titans and how Mom and Mike are doing, the head coach takes a sip of wine and says, “So, Henry…my recruiter liked what he saw in Tennessee, and I love your speed, but you’l have to work extra hard on finishing your routes.”