I think a tiny piece of me falls in love with him then. Because despite how different we are, despite the fact that he’s known me just two weeks (two crazy and overwhelming weeks), he’s managed to put words to the choking feeling that had me crying to my mother not long ago. My life has always been about forward motion. From the first time I walked into a cafeteria alone and realized I didn’t have anywhere to sit. In elementary school, we were seated in alphabetical order, according to our last names. It didn’t even occur to me that middle school would be different until I stood there, tray in hand, and realized that there was no one I wanted to sit with, and no one who wanted to sit with me. So lunch became a time to focus. To study. Then it was that way after school, too, while I waited for the bus. Then it was Saturday nights. As long as I stayed busy, I didn’t have to acknowledge that I had no other options. It was work and study or . . . nothing. That was all I had.
I only function when my mind is focused on a goal, and I’m driving toward it. And yet, for the past few weeks, I keep getting sidetracked. And maybe he’s right. Maybe that list is my way of putting on the brakes. I’d thought as long as my schedule was overflowing with assignments and commitments and projects, it meant that I was full. That there were no holes in me. But all those goals are just temporary distractions. Sand through a sieve. The minute the sand has passed, the holes are visible again.
“I like my major,” I tell him, my tone defensive not because of anything he’s said, but because of the way I can feel my thoughts pulling back to that place I try to avoid. “I like the idea of being on the edge of the future. There are so many possibilities in biomech. One of the summer internships I applied for involves biomedical research with NASA that could completely revolutionize space travel. NASA. I think that’s so cool, and it sounds right up my alley. Most of the time, I’m eager to get started.”
“And the rest of the time?”
I take a deep breath, brace myself, and say, “The rest of the time I doubt everything.”
He pushes his plate aside and scoots his chair a little closer to mine. His hands slide halfway across the table toward mine before stopping.
“You know, yesterday my coach said he thinks I stand a chance at going pro. I can’t tell you how long I’ve been waiting to hear someone besides me say that. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. When I figured out I was good at football . . . it gave me an identity. It gave me definition. I have sisters, have I mentioned that? Six of them actually. I was the only guy in this huge family of women.”
“That explains why you’re so comfortable around them.”
He reaches one hand out then and snags mine, pressing my knuckles on the table and drawing his fingers over my palm.
“It’s hard to live in a house with that many people. I was smack-dab in the middle. Not the oldest. Not the youngest. And for a long time, I felt like just one in a crowd. I had my sister Victoria’s eyes, and Sofia’s nose, and my personality was mixed and matched and patched together from other people in my family. And I just kind of . . . was. Until I found football. It was something that was mine. I didn’t have to share it with any of my siblings. And Fridays were the one night a week when my big family got to revolve around me. It gave me confidence. Pride. Purpose. Football gave me everything.”
He hesitates, drawing his fingers from my palm, closing them over my own, and then folding my hand into a fist. “But that was then. I was just a kid, and now I’m not. And over the years, I’ve given up so much for football. Things that I can never get back, things that have changed me as a person. And I can’t help but wonder what else I’ll have to give up before all is said and done. And as amazing as it was to hear someone else bring up going pro, a part of me wishes Coach hadn’t said anything. Because it’s a lot easier to be certain from afar, but when things get real, when they’re within your grasp . . . it’s a totally different story.”
“That’s it exactly. I’ve always been so sure. I’ve never wavered. I decided what I wanted to do, and I put my head down, and I got to work. But now . . .”
“It’s real.”
I nod. “It’s real.”
And so I went searching for something that wasn’t. Something that was so completely different from my life that it might balance the scales and stave off reality.
I look at Mateo then, his big body folded onto our measly kitchen chairs. His eyes are so warm and open and understanding. And it occurs to me that I went searching for something artificial with my list and found far more truth than I know what to do with.
I don’t know what I’m doing when I stand up from the table and hold out my hand to him. Our plates are still sitting there, and normally I would go straight to washing them and cleaning up after dinner, but I’ve already waited days for him.
And I’m tired of waiting. Time to really jump in the deep end.
Chapter 20
Mateo
I can’t read Nell’s expression when she stands up next to me. It’s not a look she’s ever given me, but just like everything else where she’s concerned, it makes me want her. I take the hand she offers and am shocked when she begins pulling me down the hallway in the direction of her bedroom.
I try to control my reaction, to stop all my blood from rushing south. She could just want to show me something. She could . . . fuck. I’m sure there are any number of reasons she could be taking me back to her room, but I can only think of one. And her bed, and her skin, and her taste on my tongue, and the cries I’m determined to wring out of her.