“I’ll remember this moment the next time I’m looking for a beta tester for the new additions to the game.”
G is the only person from our core group that has seen, let alone played, the video game I’ve spent the last few years of my life developing. The thing is like my baby. Giving someone a peek at what I’ve been working on is like giving them a glimpse at my soul.
Our call doesn’t last much longer before I’m tossing my phone on my dresser and heading out of my room. As has been the case these last few days, there’s nothing attached to my door when I pull it open.
Not only has it been four days since Grant didn’t get his cheesesteak, it’s also been four days since a colorful Post-it note pried into my business.
I understood the first day—most of our other roommates and a handful of our friends were here.
But…
Monday?
Tuesday?
Today?
What the hell is going on?
At first, I thought it was all in my head, thought after the abrupt end to our almost kiss, my insecurities were flaring up and causing me to imagine Quinn was pulling away.
Except…
The more days that go by without a note, the more withdrawn she seems to get.
She hasn’t accepted any of my challenges in Dr. Mario.
I haven’t seen her cook in days.
She’s been spending more time at The Barracks than ever before.
It’s weird, and I swear it feels like she’s avoiding me.
#CHAPTER18
* * *
The sun beats down on my shoulders from above, the blistering heat of the summertime rays causing sweat to dot my skin before I finish unrolling my yoga mat out on the deck. I don’t care. I need the intense rays to chase away the chill from my mother’s words.
“You’re not going to be young forever, Quinny linda.”
It took everything in me not to respond with the No shit that sat on the tip of my tongue. Annoyance simmers in my blood as I bring one of the chairs over to my chosen spot and set my iPad atop the cushion.
“How are other suitors supposed to know you’re available if you’re constantly seen in photos with other men?”
I’d block her from my Instagram if I thought it would help that particular issue. Except, thanks to the UofJ411’s penchant for reposting anything that has to do with our crew—especially when it’s connected to their favorite couple to report on—that wouldn’t change anything.
Stepping to the top of my mat, my feet close together, I inhale along with the eight people on the screen. I can’t really see them thanks to the glare from the sun, but I don’t need to. I’ve practiced yoga long enough to follow along without it.
Mamá is actually the one who first got me into the practice, so it’s kind of ironic that I’m doing it now to help me forget the last few of our phone calls I haven’t been able to shake off.
In her defense, it’s not her fault. She hasn’t said anything I haven’t heard before. And just like the fifty million other times she’s used the same rhetoric, it’s never with malicious intent.
“Your looks are your gift, mi niña. They’ll help you land a man who will treat you like a queen.”
Again, things would be far less complicated, my feelings far easier to sort out if there was a self-serving reason behind her thought process. Except…
There’s not.
Instead, my mamá is a first-generation Mexican woman, the first person—male or female—in her family to go to college, and at a major American university to boot.
It was there she met and fell in love with Texas Longhorn cornerback Eli Thompson. Daddy’s torn Achilles may have put an end to his NFL dreams, but it didn’t stop him from receiving a hero’s welcome when he moved back home.
Tom Landry once said, “Football is to Texas what religion is to a priest.” It made sense that when hometown football star Elijah Thompson—the same Eli who helped bring two state titles to his high school team and followed those with a collegiate national title—returned after graduation, he still managed to be a very big fish in our small pond.
That same consideration extended to both his new wife and the baby girl—yours truly—they had on the way.
I didn’t grow up overly wealthy by any stretch of the imagination, but we were more than comfortable. There was always plenty for my cheerleading, and for those of you who aren’t aware, club, aka all-star cheerleading, is expensive as fuck.
That’s the kind of life Mamá wants for me. She never wants me to have to worry about putting food on the table, and to her, that’s a goal easily accomplished by landing a high-profile husband in college like she did.
I just wish she recognized that we have the same goal. The only difference? I want to be the one to give it to myself with a successful career. I want my future husband to be my partner, not my caretaker. And when she says things like that? It picks at the already lifted scab from old hurts and incorrect assumptions.
From my friends: “You want to be class president? But you’re the homecoming queen.”
Why couldn’t I have been both?
However, my personal favorite came from my guidance counselor: “Do you really think you should go out for student council? Isn’t the prom committee more your speed?”
Though that misogynistic asshole only had his job because of nepotism. By the end of my high school career, I learned to take his advice with a grain of salt…and then a shot of tequila at the bonfires the football team threw after their games on Friday nights.
Focusing on my breath instead of those spiraling thoughts, I drive into my palms, pedaling my feet to loosen up the downward dog of my first sun salutation. Sealing my lips, I take the breath in fully through my nose, drawing my belly button up and in. Lifting my tailbone as high as it will go, I hold for one more beat before exhaling both the air from my lungs and the negativity from my system.
I’ve just entered the final downward dog of sun salutation A when a set of bare feet enters my field of vision at the edge of my mat.
CK.
The reason behind why Mamá’s words hurt more than usual.
“You’re much better at this than Kay,” he observes as I jump my feet back to the front of my mat, folding forward and reverse swan diving to stand.
“That’s because I practice it three times a week, whereas Kay just fits it in when she can.” Or it might have something to do with me being out here by myself. The hijinks tend to increase and your form tends to take a downturn when you’re gossiping with friends during your workout.
Moving through chair pose, I follow the steps of sun salutation B to take me back down to the mat.
Could I pause the video instruction? Sure. Do I? Nope. I’m not out here glistening in the hot summer sun for my health. Well…okay, I sorta am, seeing as yoga has been proven to have numerous health benefits, but you’re missing the point.
I’m a woman on a mission, trying to find my zen after being the one to take the metaphorical sledgehammer—or in my case, an attempted what-the-hell-was-I-thinking kiss—to it.
Unfortunately, the weight of CK’s gaze on me as I move through the poses until I’m back on my feet leaning into crescent pose and can make eye contact again isn’t helping that endeavor in the least.