After working with Zara, I could see how much work he’d put into making their house inviting and beautiful. She’d helped me see a place I’d been in hundreds of times in a new way. It also explained why Felix used to jump on my case about cleaning up after myself when I’d been here. My gear didn’t exactly match the decor.
“Who’s the girl?” He inspected the bottle of wine, pretending he wasn’t watching my embarrassment grow.
The tips of my ears were glowing now. “There’s no girl. How are you doing?”
“Fine.” He waved away my question. “The woman, then? I might not have picked up Felix’s fashion sense or knack for floral display, but I can tell when my nephew is smitten.”
“There’s no one. It’s not a thing. I went out with the guys last night. It’s probably my hangover or bleary eyes you’re picking up on.”
“Yes, because a hangover and goo-goo eyes look so similar. Thanks for the wine. Dinner’s almost ready.”
“Did you need help with it?” I tried to walk into the kitchen, but he turned me around, shoving me toward living room.
“I’ll call you when I need you.”
This was the first time I’d been back since Felix died.
Shame burned bright in my gut. I should’ve come by sooner. Checked up on Sam. Now, at least working at Simply Stark, I got to see him every day and see if there was anything he needed—in between the marathon sessions with Zara.
Only now those marathon sessions didn’t fill me with the dread of hours on end fighting tooth and nail—they made me imagine a different kind of session. Don’t cross that line, Leo.
Last night in the taxi, there had been a moment. Trying to describe it made it feel inadequate. Dancing together. The taxi ride home. When our hands brushed as she went to leave, I’d wanted to drag her back into the car to learn firsthand how soft those lips were, but she’d bolted.
Next time, I wouldn’t let indecision stop me.
Decisive action had been how I’d run my life. In a play on the field, knowing where I needed to be and adjusting at a split second when things changed was how I’d stood out. My ticket had been written by my ability to make lightning-fast decisions before anyone else could recover.
It was also why I’d agreed to give my dad the money he’d needed instead of waiting. It was what had made me fake right and not left, ending my career. The split-second decision meter hadn’t been working in a while, but with Zara last night, it had felt like it had clicked back into place.
Pictures lined every wall of the house. Sam and Felix’s trips all over the world. Events Felix had pulled off. Their wedding. A bunch of me with Felix when I was little, including some of us picking up a pumpkin for Halloween and our attempts at carving it. The jack-o-lantern’s half smile hadn’t been nearly as menacing as I’d hoped.
Sam was in the later ones, once I made it to middle school. He and Felix stood smiling beside me at my eighth grade graduation, where I was already a few inches taller than them. I’d been able to see over the sea of kids and parents to find their smiling faces. My dad had been at home watching football.
One of last photos we’d taken all together hung outside the entryway, almost to the kitchen. It was draft night. I’d slammed that California hat down on my head when their logo appeared on the screen behind me. My smile was huge and full of the promise my future held.
“He was a blubbering mess that night. I had a box worth of tissues shoved into my pockets.”
“It was a great night.” And here I was four years later, trying to find my new place in the world—just like Sam was trying to find his now, too. “Have you been cooking a lot?”
“Not too much. Help me with the sauce.” He nodded toward the stove. “Open the wine first.”
I grabbed the corkscrew and poured a glass for each of us. Garlic bread went into the oven and the old memories came rushing back.
Sam laid the last of the freshly-made pasta across the small gap on the drying rack and gestured to another photo from my senior year of high school. “Do you remember how nervous you were on opening night?”
“It was even worse than my first college game. Those pants were so tight. Plus, the dance moves—it was a minor disaster.”
“Not from the way all the ladies in the audience were screaming your name.” He added more salt to the water before it reached a boil.
“You mean Conrad Birdie’s name.”
Somehow, my senior year, the drama teacher who’d hounded me since I was a freshman finally convinced me to take a part in the spring musical. Football season was over, I’d gotten my full ride, and there wasn’t much else to do. At least the late-night rehearsals had kept me busy.
When she’d said I’d have a part, I thought I’d be a tree or something, not Conrad-freaking-Birdie in Bye Bye Birdie. The guys on the team had given me shit about freezing on stage, so I couldn’t back out.
“I meant yours. Trust me, they weren’t worried one little bit about a missed step. You did a wonderful job.” Sam patted my arm, going back to stirring the pasta. “Who knew you had such a wonderful singing voice?” He covered his barely-contained laughter with a cough and a dash of garlic salt into the sauce pot.
“I couldn’t have done it without all the help from you guys.”
“All we did was run some lines with you.”
“And helped me get my costume together. Felix went over the dance steps with me so many times.”
Sam lifted two handfuls of pasta from the rack and dropped them into the pot. “You were also there in the front row, cheering me on at every performance.”
“It’s not every day we get to see someone we know up on stage with their name in lights.” He framed his hands in front of his face, mimicking a marquee.
“The ticket booth kiosk in front of Reed High hardly counts as a theater.”
“That’s what you think. We had a ball and we were happy to be there to support you.”
“I’m glad someone was,” I mumbled, stealing a piece of garlic bread from the tray.
“Your dad probably had perfectly valid reasons to not make it.”
“To any of the shows?”
Sam went back to stirring furiously. “He was always there for your football games.”
“So was Felix. He was always there to support me no matter what.” And I’d let him down. I hadn’t been there for him when he’d been there for me from the time I was little. When everyone had shoved me into the football box, never to escape, he’d encouraged me to do whatever I enjoyed. It happened that was football, but I’d never felt like I’d let him down by trying other activities.
Plating the heaping bowls of pasta with a side of garlic bread, Sam grated what looked like five pounds of parmesan over the steaming dish.
“Do you think that’s enough cheese?”
Sam looked from me to the bowls and picked up the block of parmesan again.
“I was joking, Sam. This dish is 80% cheese as it is.”
“You can’t beat a good parmesan.”
“You can when homemade pasta’s on the menu.”
“What are the rest of the gang up to?” He scooped up a spoonful of sauce.