“I don’t know. My parents always got along—likely creepily well. They hugged, they talked on the phone, they were kind to each other. Zero weirdness, which has me obsessing over these details now … but it’s not like I hated football. I was just upset. It always felt like my dad chose the game over me. He moved here for a coaching opportunity, and for years he’d have me fly up to see him for Thanksgiving or Christmas, and I always felt like I was on the back burner as he focused on football. I guess in some ways it just made me gain a resentment for the game.”
“But Matt plays football. Did he help change your opinion?”
I shake my head, laughing though the conversation isn’t funny, but it makes the admitting this somehow easier. “We used to break up during football season like every year. He’d get really intense and competitive, and he ate and drank and slept football. He would say that he felt guilty because he couldn’t be a good boyfriend and focus on the game, and so every year before football started, we’d break up.”
Arlo’s eyebrows inch upward, but he doesn’t say anything.
“I get it. I know the double practices and weights and school and all of it just adds up.”
“It didn’t bother you?”
I shrug, not wanting to talk about it, though it feels like I should. I know that putting my thoughts to words is going to make them real—which is probably the exact reason why I don’t want to do it—but all his honesty and openness and everything makes me want to be a little less chicken shit, so before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “It did.” I take a deep breath and slowly let it go. “I mean, at the time, I went along with it because I wanted to be with him, and if that’s what it took, then so be it. But looking back, I can see that it was a cop-out on his part. He wanted to eat his cake and have it too, and I was young and thought I was in love and didn’t know any better.”
“Hindsight is twenty-twenty.”
“Exactly. And it’s made me realize that I don’t want to be sidelined for someone’s convenience, and I don’t deserve to be either. As Rose has drilled into me numerous times, I’m freaking Guac.”
Holy shit, was there booze in those potstickers?
Arlo doesn’t say anything for a few moments, just cocks his head to the side a bit and stares at me with warmth in his eyes. “We should watch a movie,” he finally says.
“I don’t know if I can stay awake through a whole movie. I think I’m just going to go to bed tonight.”
“We’ll watch it in your room that way if you want to pass out, you can.” He’s already standing, collecting our dishes. He rinses them and puts them into the dishwasher, while I battle my thoughts about whether this is wrong or right. He puts the leftovers in the fridge then turns to me, one eyebrow raised. “You ready?”
This is my opportunity to say no. To tell him we’re moving into uncharted territory and confusing what’s happening. That we have different plans for our future, and that I don’t want to ruin our friendship. That he has his recovery to focus on, and I have unfinished business with Matt to resolve.
Then he grins as his hand latches onto mine, and he hauls me upright, and my mood flips like a seesaw. Logically, I know I should be saying no—draw the lines in the sand to define our relationship, but emotionally, I want to bask in our time together, knowing it may be short-lived but worth it. It's been nice to have someone around, and Arlo’s frequent smiles and quick jokes make me feel better—happier—fuller. It’s selfish, but I want to be around him, regardless of knowing I shouldn’t be.
While I change and brush my teeth, he changes and gets us both water, then we switch. I move the pillows, and he pulls the blankets down. We’ve developed a routine, which seems crazy when it’s been such a short time, but it’s seamless and easy and comfortable like most things are with Arlo. Tonight, I also grab him an ice pack because I know after all the walking today, his knee has to be sore and swollen.