The Crush (45)

“Ahh.” After trying the wine, she hummed appreciatively. “And this casual thing,” she said carefully. “Is there the option for it to be not casual?”

The answer to that was as clear as mud. A giant knot of tangled string that had no clear place to start pulling it apart.

I gave her the only answer possible.

“I don’t know.”

Molly studied me for a moment, then nudged the wine bottle closer. “You take this one. I’ll take the other one.”

I laughed. “How are we getting home tonight? We both drove.”

“That is a problem for later,” she said. “For now, I want to hear what I’ve been missing in my friend’s life the last few weeks.”





Emmett



The sky was dusky but not quite dark when the driver pulled up in front of my parents’ house. Every single window downstairs was bright with lights, and Molly’s car was parked in the driveway.

“Thanks,” I told my driver. Robert, as I’d learned, was in his forties, and started driving when he was laid off from a manufacturing job the year before. His son was a great football player but hated school. “Tell Matt to keep up his studies if he wants to play in college. It’s good to have the talent, but you can’t flunk out if you want a chance at the pros. And there’s nothing wrong with starting at a D2 or D3 school to hone his skills for the first couple of years. He can always transfer.”

“I never thought of that,” Robert answered, giving me an appreciative smile over his shoulder. “It was a pleasure meeting you, sir.”

“The pleasure was mine.”

“Do you mind if…” His voice trailed off. Then he held up his phone. “Is it okay if I grab a picture? My son will never believe me.”

“I don’t mind at all.” I leaned forward so he could snap a selfie, then clapped him on the shoulder. “Just don’t tag me in the next five minutes, okay? My mom has no idea I’m here.”

He smiled. “You got it, sir. Have a great night.”

Slinging my duffel bag over my shoulder, I waved as I climbed out of his SUV.

I took a second to stare up at my parents’ house. They’d lived there my entire life. When my dad played, he wanted as normal of an upbringing as possible for his sisters when he took custody of them. Because they were raised by my dad—and my mom once they were married—and I was the tag-a-long years later, I was always viewed as the little brother.

The brick house he purchased was in a tree-lined neighborhood, kids rode bikes on the sidewalk, colored in chalk all over the driveways, and neighbors knew each other. After he retired, started coaching, and the house emptied out of everyone but me, he and my mom could’ve moved. They had the money to buy something bigger, in a flashier, more elite neighborhood, but this was home.

It housed all the messes and tantrums and arguments and growing pains.

Five of us figured out life in those brick walls—raised by my parents and taught the value of hard work, fighting for what you want, treating each other with love and respect even if you disagreed—and as I walked up the driveway, I realized just how many of those lessons had carried me to the point I was at now.

It wasn’t just how to throw a football and read a defense and how to lead a team.

They taught us how to live life well, in the ways that mattered. Gripping the strap of my duffel bag in my hand, I wasn’t sure I could say I was succeeding in all those ways.

I was successful. I was admired. I’d proven the thing I’d set out to prove.

But I was also alone. And I didn’t want to be anymore.

This trip was a turning point, no matter how I sliced it. I wasn’t even sure Adaline would agree to see me, but I had to try.

The front door was unlocked, and I crept in as quietly as possible. I set my duffel bag down by the foot of the stairs and grinned at the sound of my mom singing in the kitchen.

Nineties rap, if I heard her correctly.

Through the slider out to the backyard, Molly laughed loudly, and I wondered who else might be out there with her. I leaned my shoulder against the wall and grinned at the sight of my mom. She tossed out a line with a few curse words, and I smothered a laugh.

“No wonder your grandkids are completely corrupted,” I said.

With a shriek, she whirled, eyes wide and a soapy sponge clutched in her hand.

“Emmett?” she whispered. The sponge fell to the kitchen floor.

I smiled. “Is there an open room for me this week?”

That was when my mom—the most unrepentant badass woman I’d ever met in my life—dropped her face in her hands and burst into tears.

I strode across the kitchen and wrapped her in a huge hug, smiling into the top of her head when she flung her arms around my back.

“These are happy tears, right?” I asked.

She nodded. “It’s a weird mom thing, and I can’t control it. It’s horrible.”

I laughed.

She pulled away, wiping at her face with the back of her hand.

“Hi.”

She smacked my chest. “Holy crap, kid. What are you doing here?”

“Isabel’s freaking out about turning forty. There’s no way I’m missing that.”

Mom laughed, her eyes sparkling. “She really is.”