looked like it had been broken.
Dad cleared his throat. “Hi there.”
I jerked, straightening my back. “Come in.” That was the right thing to say...right?
With an amicable smile, Beckett’s dad started inside. Aiden offered to take his coat, then did the same for Beckett, almost as an afterthought.
Beckett’s eyes stayed on me, roving me like I had him. His stare trailed a path from my loose braid to the easy wrap of my jersey dress over my chest and hips. I’d felt self-conscious before, but now I felt...warm. My ears were so hot they had to be red. It was a good thing they were covered by my hair.
As Aiden, my dad, and Mr. Langley walked toward the dining room, falling into an easy conversation about football, Beckett stepped closer to me. We were alone now in the foyer.
He reached out, his fingers skimming along my braid. “This is pretty.”
They brushed over my shoulder, and my nerves danced under his touch, brought alive by the simple contact. It took all I had not to shiver. Instead, I tilted my head. “You dressed up.”
“Had to make sure I’d get the parents’ approval.”
His words heated my stomach just as his eyes had warmed my cheeks. “This is important to you?”
“Of course,” he said. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
I smiled and took one of his hands in mine. Fortune favors the bold.
He gripped my hand back and walked with me toward the dining room. When we reached our audience, we parted ways, sitting across the table from each other.
It was too far, until his foot gently nudged my own. The butterflies danced happily, and I tried not to be too obvious about it. Especially under the prying eyes of my parents. His dad seemed comfortable, sitting with his son and a girl’s parents, but my mom and dad were like hawks, their eyes tracking every move Beckett and I made.
“So, Beckett,” my mom said. “Have you applied to any colleges?”
Beckett opened his mouth to answer, but Mr. Langley chuckled. “More like they’ve applied to him. He has UCLA, Duke, LSU, OU, and KSU on our voicemail almost every day, checking in to see if he’s made his decision yet.”
Mom beamed at him. “You must be proud.”
Mr. Langley smiled at his plate, cutting his ham. “Hard not to be. My head might not fit in our house once he becomes a second gen Heisman winner.”
Beckett met my eyes, and I instantly recognized the struggle I saw there. His dad had said “once” he wins it. Not “if.” The weight of that expectation didn’t escape me.
Mr. Langley looked at me. “What about you, Rory? I’m assuming movie star isn’t your biggest aspiration.”
I caught the dig at Merritt, but it didn’t please me. What made him assume I wouldn’t have a future in acting? There were plenty of curvy women to aspire to—Rebel Wilson, Queen Latifa, Melissa McCarthy—they were inspiring and comedic and wonderful as any skinny actress.
“Rory wants to be an art teacher,” Dad said. “She’s a brilliant painter.”
Mr. Langley raised his eyebrows. “Good to have a fallback plan, if the art fails.”
Something deep within me bristled. Teaching wasn’t a “fallback plan” for me. It was a career where I could work with students—people just like me—and make a real difference for them. Be the support my mom hadn’t been to me, regardless of their size, shape, or color. I could help them embrace the outlet creating had been for me.
I was about to speak, but Beckett beat me to it.
“She’s an amazing artist. She doesn’t need a fallback.”
Dad subtly raised his glass to Beckett as Mr. Langley backtracked. “There’s nothing wrong with art, but a teacher’s salary…it’s tough without supplementing. You’re a brave young woman.”
Being a teacher like my mom didn’t seem brave, but maybe it was to someone like Mr. Langley, who expected teenagers to follow the path laid out for them.
“And you,” Mr. Langley said to Aiden. “I hear you’re quite the runner. Any plans for collegiate athletics?”
Aiden straightened in his chair. “Yes, sir. If they’ll take me.”
Mr. Langley winked at him. “I might have a few connections for you.”
“Thank you,” Aiden said, stars practically shining in his eyes. “That would be great.”
Dad nodded. “I’m sure they’ll be watching him at the state meet.”
Mr. Langley drowned his red wine down his muscled throat. “Of course.”
As the conversation dissolved into small talk around football, I pushed my salad around my plate. I wished Beckett and I could have a second to ourselves. It was so