Chapter 3 #2
“Unfortunately, that’s also my type. You should put that shot in your portfolio. If he’s down to model more for you, you could create an entire exhibit around him.”
“You think?” No way in hell am I considering turning Dane into a primary subject for any exhibition, but I do love this shot. I’ll never tell Dane that, because he’d turn it into something gay, but it might be the best photo I’ve taken since coming to SD.
“Totally. Hell, if you make it grayscale, it could be an ad for some ritzy cologne.”
“I’m Connor, by the way.” I reach my arm between the monitors and shake her hand.
“I know,” she smiles, pinching my fingers a little with her silver rings. There’s a ring through her septum, too, and a row of them around each ear. “I’m Margot.”
“I know. Nice to meet you.”
Swiveling back to my monitor, I face Dane’s image again and chew the hell out of my fingernail while staring at his handsomeness. Out of curiosity alone, I adjust the settings to grayscale, and holy shit, it really does look like a cologne ad.
Behind me, Margot warbles out an, “I told you so.”
Weeks are longer in San Diego, and my Thursdays are especially sluggish.
Two classes, plus lab hours and a meeting with my new faculty advisor.
I’m on campus for ten hours straight, which is why I’m ecstatic to find Thalia’s new car in the driveway when I get home.
I’d found a lawyer show on Netflix that she’s going to love, so I’ve forced myself not to watch until I can get her next to me.
Staying in and eating out. Now that’s what this week has been seriously lacking. Thalia and I haven’t fooled around since moving here, and it’s making me a little nuts. I yearn for the once-a-week routine we had in Sacramento. But, as Thalia says, ‘this is the nature of law school.’
When I come through the front door and collide right into my girlfriend, it’s natural to put my arms around her and kiss her cheek.
“I am so glad to see you.”
“Aww, I’m glad to see you too,” she coos a moment before she slips from my embrace and grabs her purse off the hutch. “I’ll see you tonight.”
Tonight? It’s already tonight. It’s sundown, quarter to seven.
“Where are you going?” I ask, hating how motherly I sound. That, or possessive, which is the very last thing I want to be.
“I told some classmates I’d meet them at a coffee shop next to campus.”
“Oh. I thought we could hang out. Feels like I haven’t seen you in forever.”
She doesn’t hesitate to prop open the front door, but she takes the time to offer an apologetic pout. “Maybe, uh…you could come with me. We’ll be going over case law all night, though. It’ll bore your brains out.”
That does sound majorly boring, and after two years, I know what an offer sounds like when Thalia doesn’t actually want me to join.
“No, it’s cool. Go do your thing. I’ll wait up for you, and maybe we can watch something when you get back.”
“I’d love that.” She hops forward and offers me a quick kiss—my consolation prize—then she’s gone.
Still weighed down by my backpack and camera equipment, I only make it halfway to the hall before Joselyn catches me with a delicate hand on my arm and says dinner will be ready soon.
I think she prefers having me at the dinner table, especially when Dane is home.
I’ve gotten the picture that Dane and Artie in the same room is as volatile as a missing landmine.
Tread carefully, and I might make it out with most of my limbs. Trample recklessly, and boom.
Secretly, I enjoy bearing witness to it all, like a reality show playing out in real time in front of my face.
I also like finding subtle ways to stand up for Dane, even though he doesn’t want me to, because he thinks it’ll tarnish Artie’s opinion of me.
But I think Artie wants to be proud of Dane. What dad wouldn’t?
It takes minutes of Dane humming the Final Jeopardy jingle at the table for Joselyn to concede that it’d be alright to eat without Artie.
“I told him seven,” she mutters on her way to the oven. “He promised he’d be home on-time.”
By the time she delivers the stir-fry to the table, the front door bursts open, and Joselyn’s attitude turns on a dime.
“Just in time, babe!” she calls out. “You look like you worked up an appetite.”
Artie grunts a hello before tossing his briefcase onto the living room armchair and taking his seat at the head of the table.
“Where’s Thalia?” he asks, frowning between Dane and me.
“Study group,” I answer.
Artie tears the cloth napkin from under his cutlery and lays it across his lap. “At least one of my kids studies.”
“Good to see you too, Dad,” Dane answers with a pair of finger guns blasting Artie’s way.
While Joselyn leans over the table and dishes out portions onto Artie’s plate, he zeros in on me and says, “Seems like I see you around here more than I do my own children. You don’t have any friends?”
“I—” I stall, surprised and side-eyeing Dane’s snickers. “I have friends. Just haven’t made a ton here yet.”
“Maybe you should get a job.”
“I’ve been thinking about applying to coach youth leagues. Seems like Parks and Rec is desperate for people with an athletic background.”
“That’s adorable,” Dane says with an uneven smile.
“You should coach Dane,” Artie says, spearing his food as soon as Joselyn finishes dishing it onto his plate.
“Coach me at what?” Dane scoffs.
“Soccer, obviously. Connor is a talented, decorated athlete, whereas you’ve been struggling.”
Dane’s tone sharpens as the tension rises. “I haven’t been struggling.”
“You can’t maintain possession of the ball, and you let your opponents outmaneuver you. You were nearly red-carded on Saturday because you can’t handle your temper. Your teammates don’t trust you, and your coach only puts you in as a last resort.”
The casual manner in which Artie delivers his assessment doesn’t ease the tightness in my gut as I look to Dane and wonder if this is when he finally blows his gasket.
Instead, Dane goes somber. “You watched my match?”
“If you can call it that.”
Seeing Dane crumble is bad enough, but the way Artie doesn’t give a damn sours my stomach. Even when his dad threatened to disown him if he were gay, Dane didn’t look so chewed up and spit out.
“I watched it too,” I interject.
The fire I expected to see in Dane’s eyes at his father’s remarks, he directs at me instead. “Then what did you think, Connor?” He spits my name out like an insult.
“I think you have a lot of potential.”
Artie comes at me with, “What do you think is holding him back from his potential?”
Wishing I had just kept my mouth shut, I answer with my eyes on Dane. “I’ve only seen the one match you’ve played this season, but based on that, I’d say your greatest weaknesses are game IQ and body discipline.”
Leaning forward, Dane seethes, “You’re saying I’m stupid and uncoordinated?”
“No.”
“He also does not receive constructive criticism well,” Artie says, “as you can see.”
“I’m sorry.” There’s a mix of sympathy and fear rattling my nerves. I’m athletic, but I don’t know how to defend myself in a fight, especially if my opponent is six-feet, four-inches of pure rage.
“Don’t apologize to him,” Artie rebukes me. “He needs to hear these things. Clearly, his coach isn’t being honest with him.”
Maybe Dane needs to hear these things, but I also think he’d receive constructive criticism a lot better if his dad would sprinkle in some words of encouragement.
Holding Dane’s sharp gaze, I say, “You’re good, Dane. You track the ball well. You play with a lot of power and determination, and you never give up. Your team’s loss is not all on you, and you were not the worst guy on that field.”
It’s a relief to watch Dane simmer, his shoulders relaxing and his brows softening.
“See,” Artie says, reaching over to pat my shoulder, “you’re a natural at coaching children.”
The screech of Dane’s chair scraping across the floor isn’t surprising.
I’m just glad he forgoes clocking his dad in the face and stomps toward his bedroom instead.
Artie mutters something about Dane proving his point, and it pisses me off.
I can’t imagine my dad ever speaking to me the way Artie speaks to Dane.
I’d probably be desperate to leave the room too.
“So, what do you think?” Artie asks me as he gnaws on a bite of beef and broccoli. “Can you train him?”
As sympathetic as I am toward Dane right now, training him sounds comparable to prison labor. All pain with no compensation. But Artie is allowing me room and board without asking for anything in return. Until now.
Reluctantly, I say, “I can try.”
After a hard swallow and sip from his wineglass, Artie muses, “You know what my coach used to tell me back when I played college ball? A champion finds a way, no matter what. You’re a champion, aren’t you, Connor? You can train my son. Turn him into a real man.”
I gulp down a mouthful of air and anxiety, staring off in the direction Dane had left and wondering if he’s alright. “You got it, sir.”
After dinner, I spend the rest of the evening wallowing in bed, texting pathetically homesick messages to my parents’ group chat and living vicariously through my friends’ social media posts.
I’ve never thought of myself as the center of anyone’s universe, but I’m nauseous realizing everyone’s lives have gone on so easily in my absence.
I miss that dank two-bedroom apartment I shared with my buddies.
Miss popping over to Mom and Dad’s for lunch after matches and to help them fix their electronics.
Miss the parties my pal Zeke would throw, playing Madden and drinking Cherry Sprite margaritas.
Miss those pickup matches the guys always showed up for, even when we were all gassed from practice.
Somehow, I end up on Dane’s Instagram. As cringy as some of his drunken selfies are, he would fit right in with my Sacramento crew.