Chapter 19 Parker #2
When River doesn’t answer, I point him to the nearest bench. It’s a mark of how little he was looking forward to that treadmill that he sits without protest. “At the risk of inciting another eye roll, I’m gonna ask you an honest question: Do you want to play football again?”
Cue the eye roll. “It’s the only reason I’m here.”
“Well, that’s messed up. What if you can never play again?”
“A few days ago, you were telling me you could get me there.”
“But what if I’m wrong?” I insist. “All I’m saying is that maybe you should have more than one reason. More than one plan. Or before you know it, you’ll end up like me. Almost thirty, unemployed, and living over a bar.” And harboring unrequited feelings for your best friend.
River is quiet a long while after that. We’re killing valuable session time, but I let him have his moment.
“You’re forgetting that you’re also single as fuck and making sad puppy eyes every time Summer Prescott leaves the room.” Never mind. River smirks over at me. “Might be even worse than the doe eyes.”
“Shut it, Nowak. And if you don’t think Summer Prescott is the most stunning girl you’ve ever laid eyes on, then you’ve got bigger issues than your leg, my guy.”
River shakes his head. “She’s not.”
“Yes.” I narrow my eyes. “She is.”
“Trust me, she’s not.”
I’m ready to argue this to the death, but River’s eyes wander wistfully, as though seeing something that isn’t there. I take a seat at the end of the treadmill. I’ve seen that look before, on Zac and Brooks whenever their girls stroll into the room.
“What’s her name?”
“Who?”
It’s like pulling teeth with this kid. “The girl who’s allegedly more stunning than Summer. And let me tell you, that’s a big allegedly.”
Several long seconds pass before he says, “Macy McAdams. She tutored me in math last year. We got close.”
“And…” I struggle to find the right words, wishing Summer were here. She always knows the right thing to say. “Have you asked her out?”
“Wanted to. Never did.” He scrapes at nothing on his athletic shorts, buying time before looking at me again. “I was going to see her that night.”
I go still. “The night of your accident?”
He does a funny head-tilt-shrug move I’m going to interpret as a yes. “She’s afraid of storms. But after the crash…” He kicks at a crutch with his injured leg.
Shit. The puzzle piece slips into place, and the complete picture is a sad but familiar one. He’s down bad for a girl he thinks is way out of his league, unable to get out of his own head long enough to do something about it.
Well, maybe that needs to end.
I stand and tap at the settings on the treadmill. “I’m gonna make you a deal, River. I’m gonna get you off these crutches in a month flat. And when I do, you’re going to ask Macy McAdams on a date.”
I prepare for another frustrating round of eye rolls, evasive answers, and moody responses. To my surprise he looks at me with more hope than I’ve seen since we met. “You think I’ll be off these crutches in a month?”
“I think it’ll be hard as hell and take every bit of mental and physical effort you can muster. But I wouldn’t promise you that if we couldn’t do it.” I point at the treadmill. “Are you in?”
Eye roll. I think that one’s supposed to pass for another yes. Then River turns a sneer in my direction. “What about you? If I have to do something about Macy, then you need to do something about Summer. And by something, I mean a little less making eyes, a little more growing a pair.”
“Fuck off, my pair’s fine. I like my pair.”
I’m only half kidding, but River laughs.
A real laugh.
And damn if I don’t feel like I’ve just won some sort of medal.
This miserable kid, who’s still on crutches and feeling down about himself, his college prospects, and his dating life—even if it only lasted a heartbeat, I made him look past all that long enough to laugh.
I got him showing up here, six days in a row, when he’d sworn up and down that our work together was pointless.
Maybe I’m not as much of a dead end as those glow-in-the-dark stars tell me I am at night.
Maybe I do have something to offer people. To River. And Summer, too.
“Okay,” I tell River, squinting at myself in the wall of mirrors and then moving closer until the blurred image comes into focus. I study my reflection, from the top of my mess of hair, to the sneakers on my feet. “We’ve got a deal.”
Back at home two hours later, I dig through the textbooks and notebooks piled on my coffee table until I find what I’m looking for.
If I’m really going to do this, I’m going to do it right. No more messing around or hiding beneath plastic stars.
I stare at the spiral-bound notebook in my hands, at the words Summer dictated last month.
Summer’s Dream Man: Dark hair. Showers. Nice smile. Has a job and career aspirations. Plans dates and alone time. Has a five-year plan. Owns a home. Cooks. Has big hands.
If I’m going to ask Summer out, it’ll be for the long haul. With plans and stability and big dreams for our future. As the kind of man she wants—the kind she deserves.
Some way, somehow, I’m going to become Summer’s dream man.