That was an interesting intellectual exercise. I tried to imagine it. I’d never met Bubba’s dad, but it was amusing to think about him coming from a household of huge, buff Olympians. I imagined a six-foot-five muscular mother who looked like Bubba. Ha. That made me smile. But then, thinking about them all sneering at my tragic frame wasn’t so funny. Even if my frame wasn’t as tragic as it had once been.
“I would probably run screaming,” I said.
Dustin nodded. “Look. Relationships come and go. They’re supposed to when you’re young. There’s nothing wrong with moving on. But that should be your decision, not your parents. You feel me?”
“But how do I know?” I asked. I cringed at my own words. It seemed like a betrayal of Bubba to even ask that. But I couldn’t dismiss my parents’ assessment of me. If there was one thing I hated, it was being naïve, inexperienced, and foolish, all of which my parents accused me of being. My determination not to be that any longer, when it came to sex and romance, was what had started all this in the first place, and yet here I was again.
I certainly couldn’t say that I’d picked Bubba out of my vast array of suitors. He was the first guy who’d ever shown a real interest in me. I was so grateful that he’d been willing to see beyond my awkwardness to things he valued. And I truly liked him, as a person. And we had sexual chemistry. But was it possible I had seen more than was really there? Emotions were so damned confusing.
Dustin said, “If you can let Bubba go and not feel too much regret, I guess that’s your answer. Frankly, judging from your performance today, I’d say that wasn’t the case. For either of you, Dude.” He shook his head—presumably at the pitiful state of our game.
“But he broke up with me. He walked away. I’m not sure what I have to say about it.”
Dustin gave me a sympathetic glance but didn’t answer.
I looked out the window again at the frozen landscape. No matter who was responsible, did I regret the breakup? Just the question took me out of my brain and into my feelings, and there weren’t enough words to describe them. If regret was a ball and chain around my heart that felt like it was dragging me to the floor with every beat, I had it. If I could snap my fingers and be back to the happiness we’d shared only a short time before, before the stupid trip to my stupid parents, I would. In a nanosecond.
But now that it had happened, the self-doubt and uncertainty were real. Bubba had walked away, dragging a lot of my dreams behind him. You can’t unring a bell.
I had to be sure. True, I hadn’t liked that guy Jonathan at all, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t be attracted to someone more like me, an intellectual type. I would do as my parents asked—not because they ruled my life, but because their logic was sound. Another test sample would surely help me see the picture more clearly.
I decided to wear the pink sweater for my date with Jeremiah Osteen. You might say it was a test—though of what, I wasn’t precisely sure. Of my nerves? Or his tolerance? Of the ramifications of looking like ice cream sherbet on a blind date?
Jeremiah was currently in Chicago visiting his parents, and he was hardly going to travel all the way to Madison to meet me. It had taken a bit of negotiation, but my parents were nothing if not determined. It turned out our first semifinal game for flag was in Chicago on April 11th. Therefore, my parents had decided I should arrive early and meet Jeremiah. They arranged a flight for me on Friday afternoon. I was scheduled to have dinner with Jeremiah, alone. And then the three of them would attend the flag game the next day.
The idea of my parents attending a flag-football game was absurd. It was easier to envision them attending a nudist rave. But perhaps they thought seeing my sporty side would impress Jeremiah? Or perhaps they simply wanted to place the two of us in close proximity as much as possible while I was in Chicago. In any event, that was the plan. On the positive side, the entire thing would only take up one weekend. I planned to count the flag game as date two, whether my parents did or not.
I informed Tray that I wouldn’t be on the bus to Chicago with the team but would see them at the game. I would have informed Bubba, but he was still avoiding me.
It seemed we were fated to either be drawn together or repelled. Or perhaps the repelling was only a side effect of trying to avoid the pull to be together? Hmm. Perhaps that was a new corollary in electromagnetic theory. All I knew for certain was I was walking around in a great dark cloud, which sounded like a ridiculous level of drama for me but was nonetheless true.
When I came out of security at O’Hare and found my way to the curb outside baggage claim, I texted Jeremiah the door number. Ten minutes later, a sleek black Audi pulled up and the passenger window rolled down. Inside was the man my parents had sent me pictures of—Jeremiah Osteen. He had dark hair, a large nose, and was tall and thin. To say he was handsome was stretching it a bit, but he certainly wasn’t bad looking. A bit geeky, but who was I to complain about that? That would be like the ocean calling a puddle wet.
“You look like Sean,” he said with a polite smile.
“Yes. Sean McKinney. Nice to meet you.”
“Come on in. These airport cops are terrifying.” He laughed lightly.
I got into the passenger seat. I had a duffel bag with my clothes for flag and a clean set for traveling home on the bus the next night. It fit on the floor between my feet.
“How was your flight? Was it a commuter plane?”
I nodded. “It was smooth. I managed to get some studying done.”
“I always work on the plane too. It helps me not think about all the things I’ve learned about volatile air currents in my classes on the atmosphere.”
I decided, in consideration of my future flights, I didn’t want to pursue that conversation.
“So, your parents said you’re staying at the airport Hyatt. Want to just grab dinner there?”
That had been the arrangement, but it was polite of him to ask. “That would be ideal. Thank you.”
At the hotel, I checked in and got my keycard since there was no line at the front desk. We located the restaurant. He glanced at me sideways a few times when I unzipped my parka and put it on the coat rack. I smoothed the pink sweater down defiantly as we followed the hostess to our table.
Once we were seated, he looked at me pointedly. “You’re certainly a redhead. I wasn’t misled on that score.” His smile might or might not have been genuine.
“I certainly am,” I agreed. “It’s hard to imagine anyone more redheaded than me.”
He glanced down at my sweater. “And you’re adventurous about it. That’s admirable.”
He didn’t make that sound like a compliment. I picked up the menu and stared at it. Not a big fan of the pink sweater, I noted. Idiotically, that made me smile.
Stop it, Sean. Be objective.
“I’ve never been here before,” he said, though I wasn’t sure why anyone would go there unless they were staying at that hotel. “But one presumes the fresh-water fish is edible. Since this is Chicago. Although, sad to say, farmed fish now dominates the market. Do you know half of the fish served in restaurants is farmed?” He looked up, warming to his subject. “Even in places like Chicago. In fact, if it doesn’t say wild caught, it’s a safe bet it’s farmed.”