my half-brothers when he wasn’t even a seasonal dad with me.
“It’s good,” I tell him.
He nods again. “What’s your middle name?
“Jane.”
“Jane?”
“My mom loved animals.”
His brows knit with an unspoken question.
“I was named after Jane Goodall.”
His grin turns mischievous. “I was named after my great-grandpa. This feels incredibly boring and small-minded now.” He opens the door, carrying a breeze into the living room. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I smile again, though my chest feels tight. I don’t want to be alone tonight. I close the door and lock the deadbolt before releasing a long and slow breath. Even after nearly three years of living in this apartment, it feels sterile and foreign—temporary. I stare at the pictures we hung, the furniture we’ve rearranged a dozen times, the paintings in the hall we made together at Valentine’s two weeks ago, and try as I might, the foreignness doesn’t lessen.
I head to my room, leaving the door open because the cat seems attracted to closed doors like a magnet. I lie across my bed and dial my mom. It rings six times before voicemail picks up. “Hey, it’s me. Do you remember that time you made red lentil curry, and I had been out skateboarding in the parking lot of the apartment complex with that girl Alexa who lived downstairs for like six months, and I broke my arm? You’d forgotten to turn off the stove, and when we got back from the hospital, the fire department was in our apartment because the burnt curry had set off the smoke alarms. God, do you remember how long it smelled like burnt curry? It seemed like forever. Like the smell was embedded into the carpet and paint and furniture. We had curry tonight, and it made me think of that. Also, I think I made a new friend. That sounds totally lame, I know. But I think you’d like him and not just because he has kind of a cool name, though I’m not about to admit that to him because he kind of has this cocky attitude, but he also seems genuine and kind. He’s basically the male version of Rose. Anywho, I love you, Mom.”
There are times where my homesickness is so strong and consuming that it’s debilitating. All my thoughts, all my memories, all my hopes seem to rotate around going back home.
11
Arlo
Paxton releases a train of curses as he takes a seat beside me on the bench. I pass him a cup of Gatorade, my attention still on the field where the team is separated by positions, running different sets. Normally, Lincoln would be in, but he’s doing extra cardio under Coach’s advisory. We all know this is to prevent him from getting hit and potentially injured, but Coach uses the guise that Cooke needs to strengthen himself to prepare for the following year. Pax has the same opportunity as Lincoln—assuming he can pull his head out of his ass and start seeing the field and reading the players once again. Like most athletes, however, it’s difficult to separate our lives on the field from our lives off the field. Generally, if one is doing well, so is the other—and vice versa.
“He’s afraid of Garcia,” I tell him. “Garcia’s a bull out there who sees red every time Banks gets the ball. Lead him left to get him out of Garcia’s path and see what happens.”
Paxton blinks, his eyes going unfocused as he considers the play and the setup. Then he runs a hand over his sweat-drenched hair. “Garcia’s trying to make a play for starting. He’s going to be hitting like a fucking tank.”
“Exactly. Plus, he’s built like a chest freezer. I wouldn’t want to get laid out by him. It would take Banks a solid week before he stopped seeing stars.”
Paxton’s face lifts as he nods. He pats my shoulder a couple of times, and his mood is noticeably lighter. “Give me a double, will you?” he asks, passing his empty cup back to me.
“I don’t know. That doesn’t sound safe while you’re operating these guns.” I bump my fist against his bicep.
Pax’s face breaks into a smile as his shoulders relax. Then Gabe, one of our team managers, brings him a full cup, beating me to it. Pax accepts it with a quick ‘thanks.’ He downs the liquid in one drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I miss you out there, man. It’s not the same. It feels like I’m driving a car with