I snort, annoyed. If that’s how you want to define me wanting to spend time with you I shoot back. I wait, but she doesn’t reply. I’m not really surprised. I half-regret the hasty words, but they’re true.
I’ve never pitied Maeve Stevens. Sure, I relate to the strained relationship she has with her father. I think it’s unfair no one pays attention to her athletic prowess and heaps attention on her brother. Which I get is hypocritical, coming from me. But the past few weeks of playing soccer, going for runs, talking, and throwing the football to her had nothing to do with any of that.
The girl I can’t stop thinking about thinks I spend time with her out of pity and is about to spend a week hundreds of miles away with a guy she could actually date.
And Charlie thinks I’m a chick magnet. If he only knew.
chapter eight
Maeve
As someone who routinely gets up at six am, I’m surprised by how unwilling my body is to climb out of bed in the morning. Of course, it’s likely due to the fact that I spent most of the night tossing and turning.
I hold up my phone to turn off the alarm that’s blaring, and the sight of my face unlocks the screen, revealing the words I fell asleep reading over and over again.
If that’s how you want to define me wanting to spend time with you.
I’m annoyed with myself for getting defensive and insecure, and I’m annoyed with Wes for having the perfect response. Most of all, I’m frustrated I’ll be stuck with the lingering awkwardness of his last message for an entire week.
A loud banging sounds on my door. “Maeve, you up?” my mother calls.
“Yeah,” I croak back.
“Okay, we’re leaving in twenty minutes,” she reminds me.
“Okay,” I call back, rolling out of bed and almost landing in a heap on the floor when my ankle gets caught in the sheets. I manage to regain my balance before I fully topple, hopping on one leg until I twist myself free.
I rush around my room in a whirlwind, doing everything I should have taken care of last night instead of over-analyzing fourteen words.
Finally, I finish packing and change out of my pajamas into a pair of athletic shorts. I pull the latest addition to my wardrobe on over the tank top I slept in. Wes offered me his sweatshirt in the park on an unseasonably chilly night a couple of weeks ago, and I’ve conveniently forgotten to return it to him ever since. As soon as the soft material settles around my torso, I’m surrounded with the musky scent of cedar and bergamot. I grab my bulging duffle bag and head downstairs. Liam’s best friend, Matt Crawford, is standing on our front lawn when I emerge outside. His own duffle bag is laying by his feet as he types something on his phone.
“Hey, Maeve,” he greets when he spots me.
“Hi, Matt,” I reply, yawning as I toss my bag in the back of my father’s SUV.
“You have everything, Maeve?” my father asks, rounding the side of the car.
“Yes, Dad,” I reply.
“Good.” He nods. “Liam! Susan! We’re two minutes behind schedule!”
I open the passenger side door and slide the chair forward so I can climb in the way back. I have no interest in spending the next thirteen hours squished between two burly football players. I buckle my seatbelt and stretch my legs out along the full length of the leather seat, hoping to catch up on some of the sleep that evaded me last night.
Doors slam as my parents, Liam, and Matt all settle in the car as well.
“You packed everything I told you to, right Liam?” my father questions. “We can’t afford to lose any training time this week.”
“I have it all, Dad,” Liam confirms.
The car begins to move. I plug in my headphones and try to fall asleep.
I must doze off eventually, because the next time I open my eyes we’re at a rest stop halfway through Virginia. Everyone disembarks to use the restroom and grab snacks. I’m the third one back to the car; Matt and Liam are already standing next to it when I return. I lean against the glossy paint and scroll through my phone as they talk.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Matt says. “After you left practice yesterday, a bunch of the cheerleaders were looking at some of Alleghany’s social media, and the weird thing? Cole wasn’t in any of them.”
I stiffen, but keep my eyes on my phone.
“So?” Liam asks.
“One of the guys asked where he was in the video, and Fields said he was off training.”
Liam scoffs. “Probably knew we’d hear about it and they’re trying to psych us out. Cole always spends the summer partying and getting laid.”
“I know, but he wasn’t even there,” Matt stresses.
“Who cares?” Liam replies. “You’re overthinking it.”
“Overthinking what?” my father asks as he and my mother reappear.
“Just a rumor about Weston Cole, Coach,” Matt replies. “Someone said he’s training hard this summer.”
“We’ll be training harder,” my father responds, unlocking the car. We all pile back inside to continue our trek south. I resume staring at Wes’s latest text, hating how conflicted I feel.
We pull into my grandparents’ driveway just before eight. As soon as Liam and Matt evacuate the middle row, I slide the chair forward so I can climb out and stretch my cramped muscles. The salty air fills my lungs and coats my hair. I can feel the ordinarily straight strands turning wavy as soon as I leave the car.
My grandparents sold the Glenmont house they’d resided in for decades several years ago to move to the beach house I’m staring at now on a permanent basis. I’ve always been partial to lakes over the ocean, but I can't deny the view overlooking the whitecaps is a stunning one.
“You’re here!” My grandmother appears from the side of the house to welcome us. She greets my father first, and then makes her way through the rest of us, including Matt.
“Look at you, Maeve,” she says when she reaches me. “You look so grown up!”
“You look so young,” I reply, grinning. It’s been our standard greeting to each other ever since I started going through puberty.
My grandmother laughs, and I’m enveloped by the scent of gardenia and lemon as she squeezes me tightly.
“Come eat!” she urges. “You must all be famished.”
We follow her through the sprawling gardens. My grandmother’s favorite hobby is gardening, and my childhood years are littered with memories of digging in the dirt next to her. Thanks to South Carolina’s more temperate climate, her yard here is even more vibrant than the grounds surrounding their old home in Glenmont.
We approach the stone patio that juts off the back deck, and my grandfather comes into view. He's standing at the grill, flipping sizzling chunks of meat. The resemblance between him and my father is uncanny. Same proud chin, strong jaw, and sloped brow. Their similarities aren’t just physical. They have the same steadfast, no-nonsense personality Liam also inherited. I guess I did too, to a certain extent. My grandfather gives us all hugs as well, but they lack the exuberance my grandmother is bubbling with.
We all pile our plates and settle down at the patio table to eat. My grandmother asks my parents some questions about the trip down, and then my grandfather chimes in with a gruff question. “How’s the season looking, John?”
They may look alike, and act alike, but the common thread between my grandfather and father will always be football.
“Can’t we have one family meal without discussing sports?” my grandmother requests.
“I'm simply asking about my grandson’s team, Greta,” my grandfather responds. My grandmother clucks her tongue, but doesn’t say anything else.
“The team is looking good this year. We've got a lot more depth on defense, and I’ve had Liam running some weight trainings to start getting the guys in shape this summer.”
“Weston Cole still causing problems for you?” I watch a muscle jump in Liam’s jaw from his seat across from me.
“I won’t have any official stats until
their season starts. But he played well last year,” my father replies. There’s an unsaid obviously at the end of his sentence.
My grandmother jumps in, peppering Liam, Matt, and me with questions about our upcoming senior year for the remainder of dinner. Once we all finish, she shoos the three of us off to the local ice cream shop down the road.
“You two seriously come here every summer?” Matt asks as we walk along the quaint main street. “I’m so jealous, my grandparents live in a condo next to a mall in the middle of Florida.”
“Yeah, but I’m guessing your grandfather doesn't ask about Weston fucking Cole at dinner,” Liam replies sullenly.
“Come on, dude. It'll be that much sweeter when we eviscerate Cole in November,” Matt responds.
I don't say anything as I stick my hands in the front pocket of Weston Cole's sweatshirt. Have I always been surrounded by so many reminders of him? Or am I just hyper-aware of any mention now?
We arrive at the ice cream store to discover it's crowded and busy. “Get me a peach cone,” I instruct Liam. “I’ll go grab a table before they're all taken.”
I head over to one of the few open picnic tables. They're all painted various shades of pastel, and I settle on a light yellow one.
"Good strategy,” a voice says to my left. I glance over to a see a guy with blonde hair and a friendly smile. He nods towards the line. “Make your boyfriend and his friend order and snag a table.”
“Uh, thanks,” I respond. “He’s not my boyfriend, though. That's my brother and his best friend.”
I regret the correction when I see interest flare in the guy’s eyes. He holds out a hand between our two tables. “I’m Eli.”
“Maeve,” I reply, shaking his hand.
“Do you live around here?" Eli asks.
“Nope, I’m just visiting for the week,” I reply.
“Me, too,” Eli smiles. "Would you want to meet up at the pier one day?”
“I’m flattered, Eli, but I’m actually kind of with someone,” I respond. “Not my brother’s friend, someone else.”
My brother's enemy. Who I daydream about kissing and push away in real life.
“I’m not surprised,” Eli replies. “He’s a lucky guy.”
“Uh, thanks,” I respond as he turns back to his own table, still trying to figure out why I told him I’m taken. A fling with a cute, random guy who's never heard of Glenmont or Alleghany is exactly what I should be pursuing. But all I could think about when he was talking to me was that his eyes were hazel instead of blue, and that his hair was blonde instead of light brown.
“Was that guy bothering you?” Matt asks quietly as he takes a seat next to me and hands me my cone.
“No, he was actually really nice,” I respond honestly.
“If you say so,” Matt replies. “So, I was thinking—”
“They’re out of cookie dough,” Liam announces, taking a seat across from us. “Who runs out of cookie dough?”
“Evidently this place does,” I inform him. He rolls his eyes. “What were you saying, Matt?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he replies, taking a bite of ice cream.
The next few days pass almost exactly how I predicted they would to Wes. My mother works. My father, Liam, and Matt all talk, train, and obsess about football. And I spend most of my time playing card games with my grandmother. Her favorite is Spite and Malice, and I can never remember the complex rules, so she usually wins.
Our final afternoon in South Carolina, I emerge onto the front porch to find Matt sitting on the porch swing.
“Oh, hey,” he says, looking over at me.
“Hey,” I reply.
“You going for a run?”
“Yup. Needed a break from the card games. Plus, my training schedule has gotten a little out of whack this week.”
“Want some company?” Matt offers.
“Uh, sure,” I respond, surprised. Matt has been one of Liam’s closest friends since elementary school, but I could probably count on one hand the number of times we’ve ever hung out together, just the two of us.
“Let me just grab my sneakers,” Matt says, standing and heading inside. I take a seat on the front steps to wait for him.
He reappears a couple minutes later, and we start jogging down the street.
“I probably should have asked you this before, but how far do you usually run?” Matt asks.
I laugh. “It varies. Usually a few miles, but we can just go to the pier and back.”
“How far is the pier?”
“No idea,” I admit.
Matt chuckles. “Okay, I’m game.”
It takes us about a half hour to reach the pier. Matt keeps up with me, but I'm guessing he's probably regretting joining me on this trip by the time we reach it. He sprawls across the sand as soon as we reach the beach, breathing heavily. I stop next to him and grin down as he pants.
“Come on, I'll buy you a hot dog,” I offer. "And a drink.”
Matt hauls himself to his feet. “Lead the way.” We walk over to the hot dog stand, and I order two hot dogs and two waters. But when I go to pay, Matt brushes my hand aside and hands over the money instead.
“This was supposed to be my treat,” I say.
“I’ve got it, Maeve," Matt insists.
“Okay," I acquiesce. “Thanks.”
We start walking back towards my grandparents’ once we have our food. Matt's much chattier on the way back, but I’m not. I’ve always looked forward to what’s become an annual trip to South Carolina. But as nice as this trip has been: the beach, the time with my grandparents, and the escape from routine, there's someplace I'd rather be right now.
On a field of grass–actually anywhere–with Weston Cole.
chapter nine
Weston
“Cheers to our dear, dear Weston,” Chris shouts. “It’s been such a joy watching you transform over these past three years. We never thought you’d amount to anything.” He pretends to wipe a tear off his cheek, and I snort. “LET’S PARTY, EAGLES!” he bellows before shotgunning a beer and cannonballing into the deep end of the pool. As soon as he hits the water, loud music begins pumping through the backyard speakers again.
I’m officially an adult, and Chris has taken the opportunity to throw the biggest, and final, bash of the summer.
“Happy Birthday, Weston," a couple of girls say as they pass me.
“Thanks, ladies,” I reply, giving them a flirty smile.
I feel my phone vibrate, and pull it out of the pocket of my swim trunks. Are you free tonight?
Eight days of radio silence, and that’s all she sends me. With anyone else I’d be pissed. I vacillate on whether to reply right away or not. Annoyed with my uncharacteristic indecision, I send Not until nine back to her.
Okay, I’ll meet you at the cabin then is her reply. Nothing else.
Chris’s party started at noon, and it's still in full swing by the time I beg off at six for dinner with my parents. Charlie tells me he had "something epic planned,” which honestly makes me glad I have an excuse to leave.
Past plans have gone awry.
I head home, shower, change, and then follow my parents to Alleghany’s fanciest restaurant. My mother wanted to go someplace in the city, but I told her I had plans with friends later and wanted to stay in town. At the time it was an excuse to avoid spending additional time with my parents. It ended up being true, if I were to characterize Maeve Stevens as a friend. I have no idea what to consider her. But it also gave me an excuse to take my own car, so there’s that.
My parents are waiting in the restaurant lobby when I enter the building, and the hostess immediately shows us to a private table. Or at least she tries to. Progress is slow as my father fraternizes with every diner we pass who he knows. Which is almost everyone. Inevitably, I get pulled in as a result of some football comment, and my mother is forced to chime in as well. It probably takes us a good fifteen minutes to travel the fifty feet to our table.
M
y father begins talking as soon as we settle in our seats, no doubt eager to keep the happy family charade going now that he’s alerted almost everyone in the restaurant to our presence.
“You know, I was talking to Joseph Andrews yesterday after a conference call,” my father says. “He’s still quite involved at Lincoln, and thinks you’ll be a shoo-in for sure.”
“That’s great, Dad,” I reply emotionlessly. My father’s been talking about me attending his alma mater, Lincoln University, for as long as I can remember. He continues prattling on about it while we order and eat. Once he’s exhausted that topic, he moves on to filling us in on all the business associates he’s met with this week. I barely bother to pay attention to him as I pick at my steak.
Finally, the check arrives. “Thanks for dinner, Mom. Dad,” I add reluctantly. “I told people I'd be free at nine though, so . . . ”
My mom nods towards the door. “Have fun with your friends. But be careful, and don't be out too late, okay?”
“Okay,” I respond, kissing her on the cheek on my way out the door.
I speed towards the cabin. I'm late. I’ve always hated the pit that forms in my stomach whenever I’m not on time, but it's more than that right now.
I’m eager to see her.
I pull in the cabin’s driveway, and she's already there. Waiting. I park and climb out of my car.
“Nice sweatshirt,” I state as I walk over to her. She’s paired the one I gave her weeks ago with a pair of jean shorts, and I feel ridiculously overdressed in my polo shirt and khaki shorts.
She smiles. “Happy Birthday, Wes.”
“You remembered.” I state the obvious.
“Yeah, thank god for social media reminders, right?”
“We’re not friends on social media,” I remind her.
Maeve lets out a small laugh. “No. We’re not.” It’s hard to tell in the dim light, but I think she’s blushing.
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