“No.” I stare at his averted profile, glad that he can’t see I’m completely lying. “We're too young to think about marriage.”
“You were going to get married,” he points out. “And you didn't break up with him until you found out he was cheating.”
“Please don't follow my terrible relationship example.” I think back to the image of Matt and Maribeth holding hands. “You don't have time to foster a long-term relationship. You've got your rookie year coming up. All you're going to be doing is thinking about the game.”
He doesn't answer right away. In the kitchen window, his reflection is blurred and faint, like a poor photocopy of a photocopy. And then it hits me.
Ty's brother got married the previous Christmas. There was some convoluted reason due to his girlfriend's academic cheating and getting banned from being around the team, which Knox used to wife that poor girl up. But it's not Knox getting married that eats at Ty, it's that Knox got drafted number three last year. Knox left college early. Entered the draft early. Already has one great rookie season under his belt. And Ty’s feeling the pressure.
“You do not need a girlfriend to get drafted high,” I reassure him.
He doesn’t immediately agree, which means someone has half convinced him that he does. I give up trying to encourage him. He'll have to figure it out himself. Ty's one of the most stubborn and maddening people I know.
Too bad I love him so much.
In a totally platonic, fraternal way, of course.
6
Ara
After our bland dinner, Ty goes to the gym to sweat off his anxiety while I go home to face my own.
My dad sent me a text from the airplane that reminded me to call my mom. He added two lines of hearts and a phone. I wonder what Arthur Von de Menthe's adoring public would say about his abuse of emojis. There'd probably be an article in the New Yorker about how he's turning pop culture on its head.
Dully, I search through my contacts and find Mom's phone. Maybe she's busy and can't answer. A voicemail shows that I attempted contact. I cross my fingers.
“Hello, Aramintha.”
Even Dad, who came up with my ridiculous name, never calls me anything but Ara.
“Hi Mom.” I flip open my sketchbook. At least I can occupy myself with something enjoyable during this talk.
“You sound so excited to speak to me,” she says drolly. There's a shuffling of paper in the background. It's the sound of a thousand insurance policies being sold. Yup, my mom sells insurance, a profession light years away from my arty dad.
“How's business?” I ask.
“It's very good. Young people are reckless and don't foresee the need for good risk aversion products, but the same can't be said about the older generations.”
Mom has a real disdain for anyone under the age of thirty. I think she might've been born old.
“I'm good. Thanks for asking. Just working on my senior paper.” Just doodling in my sketchbook. Farmer Brown bears a suspicious resemblance to my mother. I erase the sharp chin and make it more rounded.
“I suppose it's a paper on art.”
“Yup. I'm writing on the intersectionality of politics and Picasso.”
“Such a waste.” The rustling on her end is a little faster, as if she's shaking them imagining that it's my shoulders instead. “Are you still working at the gallery?”
“Yes.”
“Do you plan to work there after you graduate?”
“No.”
“And what will you do?”
“I've applied places,” I say defensively. To date, I've only had a few interviews and the one place that did offer me a position did so only after learning that the famous sculptor Arthur von de Menthe was my dad.
“Why you went into art, I'll never know. Your father won't be around to support you forever.”
“I know that. I like art and I know a lot about it.”
“Because of the way your father raised you.”
“Well, he had to, didn't he,” I snap. “You weren't around.”
There's a brief hesitation, followed by more paper rattling. “Post-partum depression is a very real illness, Aramintha. You shouldn't diminish it.”
“You left when I was eight!”
“Are you a doctor, Aramintha?”
“What?”
“Are you?” she presses.
“You know I'm not.”
“Then you shouldn't be diagnosing anyone, should you?”
I clench my teeth and remain silent abiding by the adage that if I don't have anything to say, I should shut the hell up.
Mom continues. “As I was saying, if you had gotten a business degree, you could come work for me since apparently you can't get a job on your own.”
I text Fleur.
Come into my room and tell me we have to go study right away. I'm about to commit matricide.
“I told your father a hundred times not to encourage your art obsession. At least you aren't trying to be an actual artist. Not that you have the talent of your father, of course.”
I redraw the pointy chin on Farmer Brown.
My door flies open.
“Ara! It's time to go study!” Fleur shouts. Her eyes are sparkling mischievously. “Oh no! I didn't realize you were on the phone!”
“I gotta go, Mom. Good talking to you. Thanks for the words of encouragement.”
She squawks something, but I hang up before I can make sense of it.
I throw myself backwards on my bed.
“That bad, huh?”
“I'm going to need a glass of wine to calm down,” I tell my roommate.
“Sorry, honey.” Fleur always is slightly bewildered by the antagonism between me and my mom. Fleur and her mom have an awesome relationship. They talk on the phone once a week. They text daily. My ass can't relate.
“Do you know that my parents used to be best friends?”
“Really? What happened?”
I roll off the bed and gather my research materials. “I happened. Mom got knocked up and Dad wanted to get married. They did, but Dad's first love is his art. Mom didn't like coming in second. She divorced him because of his emotional neglect. Now they barely talk.”
“That sucks.”
“Yeah.” I don't want to dwell on it. “We better go or there won't be a table at the Commons left.”
Fleur runs to grab her bag and we hustle over to the Commons, a large gathering place that has self-serve food and booze. It gets crowded after five, but sometimes you can find a spot around the time that students are hitting the bars.
We're in luck because a group is leaving right when we arrive. I hurry over and spread my research material over the gray specked tabletop while Fleur goes and gets us a tiny bottle of wine to share.
When I started the paper, I was excited about the project, but lately it’s become a chore instead of a pleasure. The hundreds of pages of research I've amassed and must distill into one coherent paper are piled up dauntingly.
I reshuffle a few pages and flip open my computer.
“How many pages are you on?” I look up to see Fleur bearing the wine and a single piece of pie.
“Where's your dessert?” I ask, reaching for the plate.
She twists out of my reach. “Ha ha. Get your own if you want one.” She plops onto the chair next to me and proceeds to shovel half the pie in her mouth.
Damn. I abandon my laptop and make a begging motion with my hands. “You have to share. I had dinner with Ty and he's still on his veggies-and-chicken-only diet.”
“You poor girl.” She offers me a forkful of delectable pastry and fruit.
“Thank you,” I mumble, mouth too full to answer properly.
“So where are you, seriously?” she asks, setting the plate aside.
“I'm on page four. Tell me again why I decided to do an independent study?”
“Because you would only have class on Tuesday and Thursday, leaving you more time to party, party, party,” she reci
tes.
I crawl back up on my chair. “And how much partying have we done?”
“After the National Championship game, we drank for two days straight.”
“I felt terrible afterward.” I sniff my shoulder. “I swear that if I'm in the right position, I can still smell the Jäger from the bombs we did. It's baked into my skin forever.” Not to mention the pathetic lack of control I have over my lust when I'm drinking.
“It was a rough week of recovery, for sure.” She polishes off another bite and then flips her wheat-blonde hair over one shoulder. “So let's go out this weekend and get in another party.”
“I should write at least four more pages.” I thumb listlessly through my research. “I can't believe this thing has to be thirty pages. Who can write thirty pages on anything?”
“Professors.”
“But I'm not a professor. I'm a lowly undergrad.” I lay my head on the table. “Why didn't you stop my foolishness? This is your job as my best friend.”
“First, your best friend is Ty Masters, as he has informed me on nearly every occasion that I have ever seen him. Second, I did question your sanity, but you were all I'll only have to attend classes two days a week and Thirty pages? That's like a page a day for a month. I could do that in my sleep. And Classes are for suckers. I'm a senior. This is what seniors do. And so, in the face of all that logic, I just shut up.”
I don't even bother to raise my head to give her the finger. After a few moments, a big bite of pie appears before my eyes. Since I'm easy, I open my mouth, inhale the pie and then sit up like a big girl.
“Thirty pages and you already have four written. And you have, what, ten weeks left?”
I nod, my mouth full of pastry.
“Easy,” she continues. “That's like three hundred words a day. You could write that in your sleep.”
“I've never written anything longer than ten pages and that was double-spaced with extra-wide margins and a bigger font,” I whine. “These four pages are all I've written since January.”
“Well, now stress and deadlines will spur you forward.” Fleur’s not very sympathetic, but that's why I love her. You need a friend who kicks you in the pants.
“You're right.” I straighten my papers again. “You're right. I can do this.”
She reaches out and taps a blue bejeweled fingernail on a corner of my sketchpad that shows discoloration from the water bath it received this morning. “Rhyann really did throw water in his face. I thought that might be an exaggeration when I heard it.”
“Nope. One hundred percent true.”
“She looked like a thrower.”
“I know, right? That's what I told Ty.”
“You were there when they broke up?”
I’m about to launch into a full explanation of what went down when a gorgeous brunette appears at our table. She's wearing a pair of the hottest black skinny jeans, torn at the thigh on the right and the knee on the left. Her top is a striped menswear-inspired thing with a corset waist cinched tight. I look down at my battered Southern U T-shirt and surreptitiously try to brush off the crumbs that are clinging to the fabric right above the T and H.
“Hi.”
“Hi,” Fleur and I say in unison, while glancing at each other as if to ask, do you know her?
The brunette focuses on me. “You're Ara Martin, right?”
“Yes. Have we met before?”
“No. I don't think so. I'm Kathleen Leighton.” She holds out her hand.
I look at it, then at my best friend, and then Kathleen's hand again before shaking it. Is this a business meeting?
She takes a seat. “I saw you at the Row House this morning with Ty Masters,” she explains.
Fleur lets out an audible groan. This isn't the first time that some girl has tried to get to Ty through me, as evidenced by the Bathroom Batgirl, but before I can tell Kathleen that I don't run Masters' Tinder account, she barrels ahead. “I'm sure you've heard this all before, but I'm a big believer in seizing opportunities when they appear. I couldn't help but overhear some of the, ah, conversation that Ty had with his ex-girlfriend.”
“Couldn't help, my ass,” Fleur mumbles.
The new girl ignores my roommate and fixes a blinding white smile on me. “I'd love an introduction.”
“To Ty?” I ask stupidly.
“That's right.”
“What for?” I blame the brightness of her smile for numbing a few of my brain cells.
The lips curve even wider. She has a Kylie Jenner mouth—wide and very sexy. Why are there so many gorgeous girls on this campus?
“Because he's gorgeous, skilled, and available.”
“If you really overheard, then you'd know he's a terrible boyfriend.”
She waves an airy hand. “Maybe to others, but I could manage someone like him.”
Manage him? Like he's a restaurant or business?
“I'm quite good at keeping busy,” she continues, “I don't need someone to pay attention to me twenty-four-seven.”
“You say that now, but the tenth time he cancels on you, it'll be a different story,” I tell her, gathering my wits. “I'm sharing this with you so as to avoid a tragic end where you go to prison for trying to kill him.”
“Are you saving him for yourself?” She cocks an eyebrow in a quizzical manner.
“Yes,” Fleur pipes up.
“No,” I say at the same time.
I send my friend a glare. “No, I'm not. We're friends.” I turn to Kathleen. “If you really believe in the direct method, then go talk to Ty.”
“Oh, I plan to, but I saw you here and knew I should introduce myself since we'll probably be seeing a lot of each other because you’re obviously a very close friend of Ty's.”
My jaw drops down. I can't help but be impressed by her ballsy self-confidence. I sit up straighter. “Well, you’ve got ovaries of steel, but Ty makes his own decisions.”
“Of course, but it doesn't hurt for his good friend to put in a word for me. You're wondering what's in it for you,” she says, misreading me entirely. “I'll tell you. I can help Ty achieve his great potential. And as his friend, I know that's what you want.”
It's hard to argue with that.
“Every girl would like to get her claws in Ty, but just because you date him doesn't mean you’ll end up with a ring on your finger. Ty's interest in Rhyann died right after she met his brother,” Fleur informs the new girl.
I scowl at Fleur for bringing up something so personal about Ty to a total stranger. When I try kicking her under the table, I miss and end up striking the center pole. “Ow!”
The two ignore me.
“His twin, you mean?” Kathleen prompts.
She's really done her research.
Fleur nods confidently. “If you can't tell them apart, then you're doomed.”
Kathleen is unfazed. “I could tell them apart once I got to know them.”
“Ha!” Fleur exclaims. “Not even their mother can always tell them apart. I don't know anyone who can except Knox's wife and Ara here.” She points to me triumphantly. I want to sink into the floor.
Kathleen's smile and confidence don't waver. She drops a card onto my papers. “I'll be talking to Ty later, but if you run into him first and you want to help him out, tell him to call me.”
She gives the two of us a finger wave and sashays off, leaving her white card lying in the middle of our table. Fleur and I both stare at it.
“What just happened?” I ask slowly.
“I think you got hit on by proxy.”
“I shouldn't be impressed, but I am.”
“She must be pre-law.” Fleur plucks the card off the table and examines it. “Who has cards in college?”
I take it from her. “Ambitious people.” The cardstock is heavy. “Smart people.” Her name followed by all her contact information is printed in black embossed lettering. “People who already have jobs.”
I let it fall to the tabletop.
Fleur
grabs my hand, her grip surprisingly strong. “Now's the time,” she says urgently.
I quirk a questioning eyebrow. “The time for what?”
“To be honest about your feelings toward Ty. Once he graduates, the opportunity will be gone. He'll be in some big city getting hit on by a different girl every night and you'll be dealing with overly pretentious art collectors who don’t know a Picasso from a Pasternak.”
“Pasternak’s not a collector favorite. Lots of people wouldn’t know who he is.”
“You're avoiding the subject.”
With a sigh, I tug my hand out of hers. “I'm trying to, but you aren't allowing it. Ty and I are friends. We'll be friends for a long time. That's worth more than anything.”
The real truth is that Ty is a terrible boyfriend. And I don't blame these girls for breaking up with him. He never pays attention to them. Never answers their calls. Never replies to their texts. Calls them only when he wants something.
He has one true love. It's football. I don't think he's capable of multi-tasking. Until the game is over for him, he's just going to go through an endless cycle of short relationships. Do I want to be his forever friend or one of the hundred girls he dates for three months and then forgets? I mean, I get that playing pro football is something only a tiny fraction of a fraction of people get to do. But I don't want to be with someone where I place second in his heart. I'd grow to hate him like my mom grew to hate my dad.
“If you say so,” Fleur murmurs, but her heart's not in it. She pushes her plate to the side and pulls out her project planner. “If it were me, I’d have Ty handcuffed to me by the end of the week.”
I don’t doubt it. Fleur student teaches a class of rowdy five-year-olds. Ty went once to give a talk to the kids and said he'd rather spend a month being a tackle dummy than go through the terror of answering questions from twenty inquisitive children. But Fleur eats up the noisy rabble-rousers. It gives her energy. Handling one grown football player would be nothing for her.
It would take everything I had and then some to throw my lot in with Ty. We’d have maybe five minutes of happiness followed by years of recrimination and that is if he even remembered me down the road.
I push the morbid thoughts aside and reapply myself to my paper, punching out a full page of words. Section One is almost coming to a close, I note with satisfaction.
Played: A Novel (Gridiron Series Book 4) Page 5