What Happens to Goodbye(47)

I felt a tap on my shoulder, and turned around to see Dave looking around him, incredulous. We were still going down the stairs, closer and closer to the court. “Is there something you’re not telling me?” he asked.
“Um, sort of,” I replied as we passed a row of reporters and cameramen.
“Sort of?” he said.
“Here she is!” my mom said as we reached the third row of seats, which were marked by a RESERVED sign. She held up my hand as proof, waving it at the twins, who were sitting on the laps of two college-aged girls, one with red hair and a row of rings in her ear, the other a tall brunette. “Look, Maddie and Connor! It’s your big sister!”
The twins, chubby and wearing matching Defriese T-shirts, both brightened at the sight of my mom, ignoring me altogether. Not that I blamed them. Despite my mom’s attempts to behave otherwise, they had no idea who I was.
“This is Virginia and Krysta,” my mom continued, gesturing to the sitters, who smiled hellos as we moved past them down the row of seats. “This is my daughter, Mclean, and her friend David.”
“Dave,” I said.
“Oh, sorry!” My mom turned slightly, putting rriand not still clutching mine on Dave’s shoulder. He was just standing there, half in the aisle, half out, looking down at the court with a flabbergasted expression on his face. “Dave. This is Dave. Here, let’s sit down.”
My mom sat down next to Krysta, reached for Maddie, who was sputtering a bit, and settled her in her lap. I took the seat beside her, then waited for Dave, who looked stunned as he moved down the aisle, easing himself into the seat next to mine.
“Isn’t this fun?” my mom said, bouncing Maddie. She leaned into my shoulder, pressing against me. “It’s so wonderful to all be together.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice boomed over the speaker system. The crowd around us cheered, the sound like a wave passing from top to bottom, then up again. “Please welcome your University Eagles!”
Dave was still just looking around, eyes wide, as the team began to run out from a tunnel to our right. The band was playing, the floor beneath us shaking from everyone stomping around and above us. Despite my mixed feelings, I had that same rush that had been ingrained in me since childhood, the love of the game. Like the connection I had with my mom, despite everything, it was undeniable.
“Okay,” Dave said, or rather yelled, in my ear as the crowd thundered around us, applauding and cheering, “who are you, exactly? ”
It wasn’t the first time I didn’t know how to answer this. In fact, I’d taken pains over the last few years to have a different response every time. Eliza, Lizbet, Beth . . . so many girls. In this huge crowd, with my mom on one side and this boy I hardly knew on the other, I was all and none of them. Luckily, before I had to say anything, everyone around us jumped to their feet, cheering as the players ran in front of us. I knew anything I said would be drowned out. And maybe it was because no one could hear that I answered anyway. “I don’t know,” I said. I don’t know.
Defriese lost, 79–68, not that I was really able to pay attention. I was too busy running my own defense.
“So,” my mom said, squeezing my hand. “Tell me about Dave.”

It was after the game, and we were in the private back room of a local restaurant where she and Peter had made a reservation for dinner. It was called Boeuf, and was a big, incredibly dark place with heavy velvet drapes and a roaring, stone fireplace. The walls were lined with various implements of destruction: shiny scythes, swords of varying sizes, even what looked like a small battering ram. It made me uneasy, as if we might find ourselves under attack at any moment and have to seize the décor to defend ourselves.
“We’re neighbors,” I told my mom as the waiter slid thick, leather-bound menus in front of us. Dave, who had been invited to come along, had gone to the restroom; Peter was on his cell phone, fielding calls. The twins were at the other end of the table, strapped into matching high chairs and giggling as their sitters fed them, not that I could really see them that well. It was so dark, it was like the restaurant wasn’t going for ambiance as much as blackout conditions.
“Just neighbors?” she asked.
Her continued emphasis of particular words was beyond annoying, but I bit my tongue. I’d decided early on inthe first half, when she still hadn’t let go of my hand and kept peppering me with questions about everything from school to my friends, rapid-fire style, to just endure as best I could. The only other option was to snap at her, and considering we were two rows behind Peter and his assistant coaches and thus squarely on the live TV feed, any tension would be broadcast to sports fans across the country. All of this had already been public enough. It would not kill me to keep up a calm face for two hours. I hoped.
I might have forgotten about the TV thing if not for the fact that Dave’s phone was buzzing about every ten seconds as his friends spotted him on the screen. Not that he noticed, as he was completely absorbed in the game, which he was watching with his mouth half open, still in awe about his incredible vantage point.
As he watched, his eyes still glued to the action, I glanced down at his phone’s screen. WHAT THE HELL! said the first message listed, from Ellis, followed by DUDE! and a few others in the same vein from names I didn’t recognize. Then, with another buzz, one more came in. YOU CHARMER. It was from Riley.
“Your phone is ringing,” I pointed out to him.
He glanced at me, then at it, before quickly turning back to the court. “It can wait,” he said. “I can’t believe you’re not watching this.”