“That’s why you’re here. What the hell am I supposed to talk to him about? At least you two can talk football.” Her whisper-hiss turned into mild hysterics.
“You know just as much about football as I do.”
The kitchen door swung open and Coach walked out with a block of parmesan cheese and a grater. “Cheese?” He held it out to Marisa.
“No, thanks.”
I kicked her under the table.
She glared and lifted her plate. “Sure, I’ll take some.”
Coach grated cheese over her food and took his seat again.
“Smells good, Coach Saunders.”
He cleared his throat and turned to Marisa. “How’s the semester going?”
My fork scraped against the plate. The second hand of the clock in the other room blared.
Marisa’s hands tightened around her fork and knife. “It’s fine.”
“How was Venice? It looked like you had a lot of fun.”
Her teeth clicked together. “How would you know?”
He reached for the brim of the hat that wasn’t there. “Your social media.” With a pained smile, he speared a chunk of his lasagna. “I looked through some of your pictures.”
Beside me, Coach Saunders sawed across his lasagna like he was imagining my throat served up on his plate.
“Why are you snooping?”
My head dropped slightly. Every question he asked was always met with the same defensive snap. She swore she wasn’t doing it, but I had ears and eyes. That’s how I knew that mentioning anything about my game play would burn up even the smallest ground gained over the last two years, At least now she responded to him when he spoke to her.
“Sorry, I didn’t realize posting something on a public website meant you didn’t want anyone to see it.”
The silence suffocated. Outside, people walked past talking and laughing. Maybe I could blink out a message in Morse code and they’d send reinforcements. Maybe a face painter or a pony to break up some of the Titanic-sized icebergs floating through the dining room.
“We’ll have to cancel next week’s dinner. We’ll be on our way back from Michigan late afternoon on Monday.”
“Oh no, I’m so upset.”
His silverware clinked and clattered against the plate. “I’m trying, Marisa. I’m trying with you.”
“Fourteen years too late, Coach Saunders. I’m graduating from college in eight months. And I just turned in my application for the two-year Guggenheim fellowship in Venice.”
I choked on my iced tea, shooting out of my chair. My chair flipped back, clattering to the floor.
When the hell had she mentioned two years? That wasn’t part of the plan.
The sweet liquid burned my nostrils. I grabbed my napkin and covered my mouth and nose, staring at Marisa across the table. “Two years?”
My lips went numb.
“Yeah, we talked about it last week. You said I should go for it.”
Someone had slammed their foot down on the accelerator and I was careening toward a brick wall.
“I thought it was for the summer.” Picking up my chair, the tips of my fingers tingling like I was winded from a 50-yard sprint.
“No, I told you they liked me so much after the internship, they invited me to apply for the fellowship. It’s two years, and I’d get my master’s from the University of Bologna in the summers.”
A firm grip tightened around my heart. I rubbed my fist along the center of my chest to ease the ache. My hand shot out and I grabbed my glass, chugging the water, trying to keep the sawdust feeling from making its way to my throat.
I slammed the glass down, still trying to make sense of what she said. “I must’ve missed that part.”
“I was talking to you about one of the biggest decisions of my life and you blanked out.” She flung her hands up into the air and glanced up at the ceiling.
“Two years.” I sunk back into my chair, dazed, trying to picture my life without Marisa for 730 days.
Her gaze skirted to her dad like we were a married couple fighting in front of company. “Two years. You don’t think I should go?” Her hurried whisper was a splash of water snapping me from my stunned stupor.
Two years.
My heart skipped triple time, like ladder drills at noon in August.
“Marisa, tell me more about the program. It sounds important to you.” Coach leaned in, resting his chin on his fist.
“Now you care? Just in time to disappear for another week. How about I save you some time? Awesome dinner as always.” She got up, glaring at both of us, re-buttoned the coat she hadn’t taken off and stormed out of the house.
The door slammed shut behind her. We were left in the dead silence.
I slid my chair away from the table. “Thank you for dinner, Coach.” I grabbed my coat and took off after her.
“Marisa!” I called out to her from half a block away.
She stopped for a second before charging ahead.
I jogged after her and jumped in front of her, blocking her path. “Wait. I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry.”
Her lips pinched tight and then her shoulders dropped. She stared into my eyes, worry swimming in them. “You really don’t think I should go?”
“I never said that.”
“Then why did you freak and go so quiet?”
“I was caught off guard. When you were talking.” I scrubbed my hands over my chin. “I missed the two years part.” I held onto her arm and guided her back toward my car.
She rubbed her hands together, fishing under her coat sleeves for her long-sleeved ones. “Yeah, two years. It’s an amazing opportunity. They only give out one fellowship a year. Henri’s finishing up his first year.”
“Henri—awesome. Great.” It landed flat with a splat.
Her eyebrows dipped, staring back at me over the roof of my car.
“I mean, great!” I threw more enthusiasm into my voice. “You’ll have someone who can show you the ropes and you’ll be working with him for a whole year.” An art history guy with an accent, who’d already been showing her around Europe. I could see the social media post of the two of them making out under the Eiffel Tower with a tasteful, antique diamond ring on her finger.
I peeled away from the curb and swung a U-turn, heading toward our house.
“Why are you so upset?”
“No reason, just my best friend leaving for Italy for half a decade.”
“Math much? It’s two years. I was in New York for a year and you barely noticed I was missing.”
“I noticed.” The brutal freshman football season and practices, as well as a full course load of classes, had been the only things that kept me from taking the train up to visit her every other weekend.
“With all the partying you’ll be doing, it’ll fly by. Champagne. Strippers. Trashing hotel rooms. And then I’ll be back.”
“Why are you saying this shit?” My annoyance amped up—at her and myself. I’d been so fixated on her legs I’d blanked the whole “moving an ocean away” part of the conversation, but she was talking like she didn’t even know me.
“It’s the truth.”
“Rock stars trash hotel rooms, not football players. Reece isn’t partying like a maniac.”