Chapter 43
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
“Nah,” I tell Levi. “I’m not gonna let you bail me out of something else. It’s my floor too, and you have election prep to think about.”
Our group just finished playing cards, and we’re already packing up to head out of MSC. I lost every game. I’m pitifully tired, and my friends watch me in a way I don’t appreciate.
“It’s student body president, not US Congress,” Levi says. “And it’s my fault the prank is happening now. We pushed it back because of the dance studio, remember?”
Of course I remember. It was a whole drama on the floor. A drama I will not repeat. “We rescheduled it because we need so many of us at once to pull it off,” I correct. And because he needed our prep space. But still.
He shakes his head. “You’re so stubborn. You don’t know when to quit.”
“And you do?” I press my fingers into my eyes, willing myself to let something go. “Soccer. Y’all will be fine without me. What if I just take a few weeks off?”
“Good. No more soccer this season. I’ll tell the guys.” And he heads off with Kit.
“A couple weeks,” I call. “And I’ll tell them.”
What I don’t want to tell them is it’s time I get a job instead. With me, Sophie will have everything, and I’m running low on funds. I’m sure a few of my parents’ neighbors could use some hourly labor. Somebody to repair the fence or haul brush. Without soccer I’ll have two nights a week.
A memory flashes to mind—that time I stole Sophie away for a cookie cake run, when she was trying to convince me to say no more often.
I wonder if she sees that it’s working, just not in the way she thought.
I love her so much, I’m learning to say no.
No to football, which means no to Coach and, worse, no to Dad.
No to intramurals is a no to the Flooders.
I didn’t even cheer on my floor’s entry at the annual campus Cardboard Boat Race last week.
I’ve been saying no to tutoring sometimes.
And I can only manage all this because if they didn’t get my no, Sophie would.
I don’t just like when she’s happy—I need it.
I need that beautiful smile on her face, whether I can see it or not.
I need her to have everything she wants. Whatever it takes.
“Austin,” Sophie whispers, as if she heard my thoughts.
A chill runs up my spine as her arms curl around me from behind.
I twist around to her and brush waves from her face, curl a hand around her waist. She’s all play, no pity. I could kiss her for that alone. Her latte eyes are sparking with adventure.
“What d’ya have in mind, Soph?”
It’s nine o’clock on a Friday night, and my eyes are giving me away with slow blinks. I rub them and try to pep up.
“I won’t keep you out too late. Come on.” She grabs my hand, impatiently breaking into a jog toward Albert Hall.
My smile grows as I follow. I’d go anywhere with this woman. Up the west stairwell, into my room, she slides open my closet door. Then she digs through my drawers until she finds a swimsuit crammed in the back of the bottom drawer.
As she hands it to me, her grin droops. “Don’t worry. We’re just going to the pond. It’s plenty public.”
I stand motionless, my swimsuit still dangling from her hand. I used to have game. I used to be chill. Not anymore.
My mind darts around, trying not to remember how good she looks in a bikini. Electromagnetics. Grandmaría and Grandpa. Baby platypuses. Nothing’s helping.
“Please, Austin?” her warm voice coaxes. Hands land on my stomach, so I won’t be getting out of this. “It won’t be shady. Just a little adventure to get your mind off things. And then early bedtimes for both of us. I promise.”
I run fingers from the back of her neck to her collarbones. Her eyes widen.
“That yellow swimsuit you wore to the creek,” I murmur.
“You remember that?”
“I wanna see you in it again.” My fingertips lift and trail where the straps pulled around her back, where they sat on her hips. “Tell me no, Soph.”
She swallows and nods. “No bikini. Mayberry approved.” A salute. “Can we still go?”
She’s right—the pond’s a fixture on campus. We throw guys in there when they get engaged. Several floors have traditions there. No doubt someone will be up to their antics.
“I’m in.”
When she claps and bounces, I reflexively loosen, accepting my swimsuit from her hand.
“Meet me at the bench by my door? I’ll go change too.”
A snake or two live in that water, but they’re harmless. Should I warn her?
Too late. With a smacking kiss on my cheek, she’s jogging down the hallway.
We were wrong. The pond is vacant. Voices drift from the soccer field nearby, but pines block the view.
Swimming lasts all of three minutes before something brushes Sophie’s leg and she bolts out, laughing her head off.
So now we’re curled up in blankets I brought, shivering as pond water drips from our suits.
A running top and skirt. It helps.
I run a hand through my hair. It’s not her fault that she’s perfect. Thinking about her respectfully is on me. Touching her respectfully is on me. But oh man, it’s so hard to keep my hands off her. It’s so hard to keep my mind in bounds.
But she heard me. I really can trust her wholeheartedly, even with this kind of thing.
She snuggles against my chest, blankets between us, and twists to look up at me. “Talk to me.”
“Hola,” I say, going for deep and suave. “?Cómo estás?”
With a giggle, she shakes her head. “You never lose at cards like that, Zorro. ’Fess up.”
I could dodge this and blame Mia, the resident card shark. But Sophie knows better.
“I’m cooked, Soph. I dunno. I’m just kind of sucking right now.”
Her face contorts, like I couldn’t have said anything stupider. It would be cruel if we were talking about anything else.
“You don’t suck at anything, mister. Except maybe taking care of yourself.”
“Eh.”
Hands on my jaw, she jerks my face to hers. “Don’t eh me.”
My heart rate rises at her bossy look. “Feisty.”
“Why do you keep saying yes if you want to say no?”
“’Cause I don’t wanna say no.”
“Austin.”
“I don’t. I want you to have everything. With me, you’ll always have everything.”
Her eyes fill. “I’m the problem.”
“What? No, Soph.”
“I knew this would happen. You deserve your sweet tea, and I’m always dragging you away from your porch.”
Sweet tea. Like what she said on the water tower? “I’m the one screwing it up. Not you. You’re not responsible for me.”
“I want to be. I don’t know how though. You have to teach me.” Concern etches into her face. “Except you don’t know how either, do you?”
When I meet her eyes again, they knock the breath out of me. Full of longing, love, admiration. But … it couldn’t be. Not tonight.
“What?” she asks.
“You look … happy with me.”
She pushes my arm. “Duh. You’re the best. My favorite person in the world.”
My head spins. But … we just addressed that I’m sucking right now, wrecking my life. I’m doing it all so wrong I don’t even know which parts to fix. She brushes fingers down my jaw, all affection. I did nothing to deserve this. I pull away from her hand.
“Why wouldn’t I be happy with you?” she asks softly, almost hurt.
“I’m a mess. I didn’t do anything good all day.”
“Austin, stop it. You said affection isn’t earned.”
Her words hit me like a bullet to the chest. A raw, gaping wound is left in their wake. I see my inconsistency, but I don’t have the brain power to puzzle it out. I just know it hurts to think about.
She straightens, like she knows exactly the play to call.
“Jesus, help him. Teach him to say no when he should. Change things around for him so he gets the rest he needs. Shake him if he—and we—should chase down that spot at UT. Like you did for me coming here.” Her eyes flick to the side in thought.
“Make him see how good he is, how loved. Make him see that he’s more than enough.
Help us do this better.” She bobs her head once, pleased with her solution.
And with that, she infiltrates the only remaining fraction of my heart. I am irrevocably hers. She’s a dream. Impossibly good. I love her. I pull in a breath, but it comes out shaking.
Hold up. Am I crying?
My face is all wet, and I honestly can’t tell if it’s pond water or tears. Her hands return to my face as she searches my eyes. Must be tears. Great. This is next-level embarrassing.
“Austin,” she whispers.
A comfort. No horror, no awkwardness, no pity. Just belief. Just love.
“It’s okay to be overwhelmed. We’re gonna figure it out. We’ll figure it out together.”
I can’t speak, so I just squeeze her hand and wipe my face with the blanket.
Every night before bed, I sit at my desk and pick the perfect song for her.
My mind doesn’t work like Sophie’s, constantly nailing the perfect song on the fly.
I don’t remember every word to every song like she does.
It takes a minute to look around, check lyrics, confirm the song gives just the right message.
But tonight? I already know. The artist is one of Mama’s favorites, a voice I grew up on.
It’s practically hardwired. I hope Sophie hears what I can’t put into words.
She softens to a smile, like I’m looking better.
I know what I need—what Jesus told me when I was asking him how to rest. I squeeze fists into my blanket to gather the courage to ask.
“Hey, Soph? I know you were going to order in for us tomorrow, but … I wonder if—I mean I think it might be nice—Maybe you could …” I trail off.
She finds my fingers and interlaces them with hers. “It’s just me. What is it?”
And again I need a song as a crutch. It’s the only way I’m gonna get this out. I rack my brain for something that will make her understand. She waits me out through the silence until I finally break it, singing the chorus of “Kinfolks” by Sam Hunt. The pines. My people. The home that made me.
She doesn’t hesitate—just picks up where the lyrics leave off.
“Yeah,” I say. “All of that.”
“I’m in.”
Far from jumping and clapping, her dampened expression is a blow. It’s … resignation. Willingness. Worse—a favor.
I was right to think she wouldn’t want to go. It hurts at a gut level. But I need this. I need to see my people. To breathe. To be still and pray.
This will be the best kind of favor—the kind that won’t feel like one for long.
The worst kind of favor—the kind I have to say yes to. A gutting, soul-twisting favor.
After slogging to my dark, empty room, I peel off the skirt clinging to my skin. I want to crawl out of my skin too.
His house? His family? I’ve been dreading this since Portside.
I grab clean pajamas, then pause—I’ll need those tomorrow night. Instead, I toss them onto my desk and dig through drawers for something old and oversized. Close enough. I rinse with mouthwash like that makes up for skipping the rest, then sink into bed.
I’m trying to learn how to do this—how to be for him what he is for me. But I can’t convince his perfect little family I know how to take care of their beloved son. I haven’t even convinced myself.
Turn my pillow to the cool side. Flop back down.
Dread courses through my veins and congeals into panic. What if this is it? The moment he sees—I’m not that girl.
His family will … I can’t sew. I can’t feed chickens. I can’t make biscuits and gravy. Just thinking about it makes me crave a gas pedal.
A whisper. I want you close.
But I rip the blankets off. I can’t actually go to bed this early. Of all the nights to let myself overthink.
His parents and sister are going to ask about my family. Austin calls them—individually—every single week. Of course they’ll ask. And what will I say? That I literally haven’t spoken to my parents since Christmas break? Not once. It’s nearly March.
I’m not calling my dad. We barely even have a relationship. But I can call Mom. Then I can say I called her today. She’s awake. She finishes work in front of Suits most nights, and it’s two hours earlier there.
Help. I hate this.
I tap her name before I can talk myself out of it.
“Sophie? Are you in trouble?”
I mute the phone to let out a burst of frustration.
Please help me to be kind.
“Nope, just calling to see how you are.”
“Oh.” A pause. “I’m fine. Work is busy. I don’t have long.”
“I know. Any fun projects?”
Another pause. “Shouldn’t you be worrying about your schoolwork? You’d better not waste all the money I’m spending sending you to that asinine private school.”
I squeeze my eyes shut.
She’s always been distracted, but she didn’t used to be this harsh. The divorce made things so much worse.
“I have A’s, mom.”
Typing in the background.
Just tell her. She’s my mom. Maybe she’ll care. “I have a boyfriend.”
“Okay.”
I pick at my nails. What do I even say? “It’s … serious.”
She exhales sharply. “Always so dramatic. You’re nineteen, Sophie.”
“I’m going to meet his family tomorrow.”
National Charity League flashes to my mind. I was Viola demolishing wings in She’s the Man—too loud, too restless, too goofy. A complete and utter disappointment.
“What good could possibly come from that?” she asks.
I scrape at my nail. “It’s important to him.”
“They’re just popping into Nowhere, Texas?”
“No, they live around here.”
“Oh, wow.” So casual, so dismissive.
With every flippant response, the vice around my chest tightens.
“I love him.” This is stupid. Asking for it. She couldn’t possibly understand. But I’m desperate. I need her to see. I need her to care.
“There is nothing but grief on the other side of this. You’ll see.”
I know. I already know.
I don’t speak for fear she’ll hear the tears clogging my throat. She doesn’t do crying.
“Are you finished with the Jesus-freak phase yet?”
With a hard blink, I try to compose myself. “No, Mom. It’s not a phase.”
“Right. I need to get some things done before bed.”
Without a goodbye, I hang up and pull my blanket over my shoulders. I should’ve known better. I did know better.
Before I plug my phone in for the night, a text comes through. My song.
Austin
Song of the day
“My One Safe Place” by Andrew Peterson
I press Play, bury my face in my pillow, and sob.