All This Time(40)

I know that one moment won’t convince her, but we have more than just today. More than just this moment. We’ve got time.

“I meant what I said, Marley,” I say, pulling her close, relieved when she leans into me, smelling like jasmine and orange blossoms, warm and familiar. I wrap my arms around her, holding her tight for the first time.

“No more sad stories. I promise,” I whisper.

And just like that we start a new one.





19


“Try this one on,” Mom says, holding up an oversize pin-striped blazer. I squint at it, unsure of how to break it to her that she’s successfully found the ugliest item in this place.

Sometimes my mom is right on the money when it comes to picking out clothes. And other times she holds up a blue pin-striped blazer for me to try on.

Luckily, she registers my expression and holds up a casual dark-gray sports coat instead. “You want to look casual but professional.”

I take it from her, shrugging on the jacket, the fabric clinging comfortably to my shoulders and arms. I check myself out in the department store mirror.

I wonder what Marley would think. Would she think I look good?

I try to smooth down my hair, and my eyes find the thin scar on my forehead, the ever-present reminder of all that’s happened in the last few months.

The longer I look at the sports coat, at my reflection, the more nervous I get for this interview tomorrow.

Mom adjusts the collar and gives me a once-over.

“I know that face,” she says, patting my cheek lightly. “That’s your worried-on-a-big-game-day face.”

I look down at her. “Is it that obvious?”

“What? The expression of existential dread?” She shakes her head, smiling back at me. “Not at all.”

I look to the mirror, turning right and left to get a better view of the jacket. I let out a long huff of air. “What if I don’t get the internship?” I ask her. “What if he thinks my writing sucks?”

Her face gets serious, and she reaches up, turning my face away from the mirror and back to her. “Kyle, you had to hit the reset button not once, but twice in this last year. Your shoulder injury was rough,” she says, taking a deep breath. “But what you went through with that doesn’t even hold a candle to when you lost Kimberly.”

I swallow, my shoulder and scar suddenly aching at the thought of it all.

“If you can get through that, you sure as hell can get through this,” she says, meaning it. “You’ll always find a way to reset if you have to.”

I clear my throat, looking away, while she sniffs loudly, wiping quickly at her brown eyes, an exact copy of my own. “All right,” she says, smiling and nudging me. “Let’s get you a shirt.”

I sling an arm over her shoulder as we cut through to the shirt section.

“Always forward,” she says, patting my chest.

“Never back,” I say, smiling down at her.



* * *




The next morning I’m sitting in the lobby of the Times, wearing my new gray sports coat, waiting for Scott Miller to come out of his office to interview me.

In the meantime, I’m trying not to make awkward eye contact with the receptionist while I scan the walls, taking in the framed editions and clippings occupying every square inch.

I catch sight of a couple of headlines: AMBROSE HIGH WINS THE STATE CHAMPIONSHIP, GORDON RAMSAY DID NOT HATE LOCAL RESTAURANT, TOWN SAFETY MEETING ENDS IN ACCIDENT.

A door opens down the hall and I quickly wipe my hands on my pants, because although I normally don’t have sweaty palms, my body apparently has decided it’s going to give it a go right here and now.

Scott pops his head into the lobby, flashing a quick, toothy smile at me. “Kyle! How’ve you been?”

I stand up to shake his hand, tucking the folder with my articles and résumé under my arm. He’s a little bit taller than I am. About Sam’s height, with close-cut silver hair and a pair of stylish black glasses.

“I’ve been good, sir. Thanks so much for meeting me today,” I say as we head down a long, thin hallway and through a door into a busy newsroom filled with cubicles and people talking and the sound of typing. Scott nods hello to a few people, leading me to his spot in the corner, the space littered with sports memorabilia, an Ambrose High pennant tacked loyally to the wall.

He slides into a swivel chair, pulling over another one from an empty desk.

I hold the manila folder out to him as I sit down. “Uh, here’s my résumé. I brought a couple articles I wrote—”

He gestures to his computer and pushes his glasses farther up on his nose. “I’ve read them. I subscribe online. Your senior player profiles are really something.”

If my palms weren’t sweaty before, they definitely are now. What did he think of them?

“You been back to Ambrose for any of the games this year?” he asks.

I hesitate, remembering the game I went to, when I turned to see Kimberly sitting beside me, dead but not dead. “I caught part of one.”

“Well,” he says, leaning back in his chair, the hinges squeaking loudly. “I would love for you to do the same kind of profiles for the seniors this year.”

“Like… for the Times?”