The Relationship Pact(30)

I watch as she finds the plates stacked next to the pizza boxes, something I clearly missed. She hands me one. We fill our plates while Danielle grabs us drinks, and then we all find our way into the dining room.

“How are you enjoying Savannah, Hollis?” Danielle asks as we sit down at the table.

“I haven’t had a lot of time to sightsee yet, but it’s really nice so far. I love all the moss hanging from the trees.”

“That’s what Savannah is known for,” Danielle says.

“Who came down with you?” Lincoln asks. “It’s always so interesting to see who guys your age bring with them. You can tell a lot about a person by their entourage. Sometimes they come with parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles. Sometimes it looks like a whole damn gang. Other times, they bring their wives and sometimes even their own kids already.”

Lincoln takes a big bite of pizza.

I take a deep breath and blow it out quietly. “I came by myself. It’s just me.”

“Oh,” Danielle says but tries to cover her surprise up as quickly as she displayed it. “Sometimes people come alone too. I quite like a little trip by myself sometimes. This guy I’m married to can get overwhelming.”

“Bullshit,” Lincoln says.

I sit with my pizza untouched on my plate. The Landrys are so friendly and welcoming, but it feels a bit like some kind of interview. And I don’t love where it seems to be heading.

My foot taps against the floor, matching the beat of a Post Malone song. Larissa’s hand falls to my thigh, and I stop moving.

I look at her. My leg feels like it’s on fire, the heat extending out from the weight of her palm on me.

I’ve only actually touched her when we were screwing around in front of her ex. It was silly and fun and in front of the world. But to have her hand on me under the table in a way that feels resoundingly more personal—it feels different.

And good. How the hell does she do that?

“Tell us about yourself, Hollis,” Danielle chirps. “What are you going to school for?”

“Business administration,” I say. “Just like every other athlete in the world.”

Lincoln laughs. “Let me guess, minor in communication?”

“Music appreciation, actually. I try not to communicate with anyone I don’t have to.”

Lincoln’s laughter grows louder, and I chime in even though I’m not kidding.

“What about you?” Danielle asks Larissa. “Are you going into the jewelry business like your aunt?”

I turn to face my date. Larissa’s cheeks flush. A strand of hair has fallen out of the high ponytail she had it in, and I’m jealous of the way it flirts against her lips.

She removes her hand from my leg and clasps it against the other one in front of her.

“No,” she says. “I’m actually graduating in May with a degree in landscape architecture. I was afraid I’d end up hating it by now, but I think I love it more every day.”

“That’s how I felt about working in the Children’s Hospital,” Danielle says. “And I think that’s how you felt playing baseball, right, Lincoln?”

Lincoln swallows a bite of pizza. “Yeah. Absolutely. I wanted nothing more than to live and breathe it. Until I met you, of course.”

Danielle swats at him again, making him chuckle.

“Are you wanting to live and breathe football?” Lincoln looks at me. “I think it really comes down to that.”

“I’m just not sure.”

“What’s your family telling you?” he asks. “My dad was all for me going pro. My older brother Graham was all against it. It was quite the contentious conversation for a while.”

My face gets hot as I lick my lips. My gaze falls to my plate because I don’t really want to look at either of them.

I force a swallow down my throat. My spit feels like it’s on fire.

This is a question I’m not good at spinning. It’s too direct, too intense.

Deflect. Deflect. Deflect.

“Yeah,” I say, “I think my parents would be pretty happy if I went to the league. I mean, it’s a pretty big deal.”

“I’m sure they’ll be proud of you either way,” Danielle says.

She keeps talking, but all I see is her lips move. I don’t hear a word. My brain is too busy replying to her silently because there’s no way I can, or will, verbalize how wrong she really is.

I’m not going to tell her that going Pro would be the only way I figure my parents might bother to remember they had me. And then, even if they did, they’d only try to find me to see if they could benefit from it somehow. I can’t sit here and share that the last time I saw my father was a rainy morning when I was six years old, and the last time I saw the woman who gave birth to me involved a couple of ounces of dope.

Danielle sits across from me, her hands flying through the air as she tells my dining partners a story. I watch her, the sound muted by my errant thoughts, and wonder for the briefest moment what life would’ve been like with someone like her as a mother.

I can imagine her hugging her kids with the warmth she hugged me with tonight. I bet Danielle has cookies for them after school and does their laundry. She probably even tells them a story at bedtime. I’m sure she remembers their birthdays and even lets her kids believe in Santa Claus and the Easter bunny instead of telling them the truth to prevent any expectations of presents or baskets.