16. Friends
Chapter 16
Friends
“W e also have reason to celebrate,” Sam says, taking his seat and twirling his pasta onto his fork.
The metal clinking against the plate fills the silence as we wait for him to continue. “The Houston Review is doing an article about me. Not the company, just me. It comes out in a couple of weeks.”
The smile that tugs on my lips is genuine as I reach over to grab his hand. “Sam, that’s amazing. I’m so proud of you.”
Nick slaps him on the shoulder in congratulations.
“I wasn’t going to say anything yet, but I couldn’t wait. And I’m the only one there that’s had an article written about him. Except Dad, of course.”
“We’ll have to buy a frame for it and,”—I look around the living room for a spot to display it—“we could hang it there, beside the photo of the Houston skyline. Leave room on the other side for another future article.”
Sam could never grin sheepishly, but he fakes a good impression of one now. “I already bought a few frames. I’ll give a copy to my parents, maybe hang one in both of my offices. Do you think your parents would want one?”
“Um, maybe.” I’d say no, considering they gave their own child’s poem away, but this is Sam. They love Sam. I know they love me too, but having an article written about you is a big deal, and they’ll be as proud as I am. Maybe more so.
“We should invite everyone out to celebrate, maybe next Friday.” He waggles his eyebrows at Nick. “Maybe invite Kenna?”
Nick’s body tenses at the idea. Mine does too, and I decide to be honest about it. “Kenna makes me uncomfortable.”
“Why?” Sam asks, furrowing his brows.
I want to say ‘ Because she looked at me like I was prey.’ Instead, I answer, “I just got a weird vibe from her. I liked Erin though, she can come.”
“You don’t feel insecure around her? You know we slept together. A lot.”
“Well, you’re not interested in her anymore, right?”
He shakes his head. “No, although I wouldn’t reject the idea of inviting her to our bed.” He chuckles.
I’m often at a loss for words, but I doubt anyone would know how to respond to that.
“Learn to take a joke, Cor,” he says, noticing my gaping mouth.
Completely unconcerned, he describes his interview with the journalist at lunch today, and how the article will highlight all his success in a short year at the company. And being so young makes it all the more impressive.
The urge to announce my own good news has my heart racing. I shift in my seat and push my food around, preparing to make the announcement. But, no. I shouldn’t take this moment away from him. Besides, it’ll look the same as this dry salad next to his creamy pasta—not worth mentioning.
“You okay?” Nick asks me once Sam is done talking.
“Me? Yeah, I’m fine.” I take a bite, only the second bite of the meal. He isn’t convinced, although Sam doesn’t seem to notice.
I swallow and clear my throat. “Actually, I’m great. I sort of had some success at work today too, and it’s way too early to get excited, but I am anyway. But we can talk about it another day, I’m just so proud of you.” I smile and rub Sam’s arm to further sell it.
“Just tell us. Big tip?” Sam asks like that’s the only success I could’ve had.
“No, but… well, I asked Mike about making some changes, and he told me to get some more info for him. If he likes what I show him, we may implement some of the ideas and it would really improve things. For sales and me.”
Nick’s lips spread into a cocky grin. He knows he had a hand in encouraging me, but I avoid meeting his eyes, partly to keep from giving him the satisfaction, partly to keep myself from smiling back.
Sam narrows his eyes. “What are these ideas?”
I jump into it, describing too many details. It probably doesn’t make sense by the time I’m finished explaining, but I’m excited and nervous.
Only for him to say, “But it’s a diner, not a coffee shop. You don’t have the right type of customers for flavored coffee. You get truckers and drunk people that want grease.”
“Everyone from the town goes to the diner, as well as people who stop in off the highway. And I sell flavored coffee all the time already.” I have so much more to add, like how the expansion from Houston is reaching us and in a few years, the town will be unrecognizable. The time to prepare for that growth was yesterday.
“Well, what does your dad say about it?”
I lift a shoulder, glancing down at my plate as if looking for the answers in the green mix. “I’ll get the information to Mike first, then we’ll talk to Dad.”
“I just don’t understand, why waste your time on this. If you want to make coffee for a living, go work at a coffee shop.” He takes a drink of water and stands.
“Or, she could open up her own coffee shop,” Nick adds. I know he means to be helpful, to thin out the tension.
But it only adds fuel to the fire as Sam snorts. “Yeah, okay.”
“What? She could do it.”
“With what money? She has no collateral. And the only job she’s ever had is serving. She knows nothing about running a business.”
“She’s taken classes. And she knows more than you think.”
He puts his plate in the sink and comes back to stand behind the chair he vacated. “How would you know? Even her dad would tell her she’s not cut out for it. And classes only get you so far-”
“Okay, I’m right here,” I interrupt. “And I’m not opening a coffee shop. I know better.”
“Thank God,” Sam mutters. “As for becoming assistant manager, you’re not qualified for that either.”
“I know enough to fill in when Mike isn’t there. Besides, no one else has an interest in the diner. Who’s it going to go to when Dad is too old? I was just trying to do something . Have some sort of purpose, some sort of accomplishment.”
“Well, what about your blog? All your followers? That’s an accomplishment by itself.” My eyes snap to Nick’s. “That proves you know coffee.”
“What blog? What followers?”
I can see the moment Nick understands his mistake. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry, Cori.” But it isn’t his fault, it’s mine. I’m the one keeping secrets from my boyfriend. I told him my family didn’t know, but didn’t specifically say that Sam was included in family . Because it’s ridiculous.
“You have a secret blog? Why would you keep that from me?” Sam asks, like he’s just been handed ammunition for future use.
“It’s nothing. I just post recipes online. I knew you’d think it was dumb. Just a waste of time.”
I finally meet his piercing stare.
“I mean…” He laughs without humor. Saying without saying that he agrees. “How much time do you spend on it? A lot? Could you be using that time to go to school, work out…” He waves his hand around because he can go on and on with all the different ways I could be bettering myself.
I stab the romaine and spinach leaves until my fork is full and put it in my mouth. I don’t taste anything, not that there’s much to taste. It’s simply a tool to distract myself, to keep me from crying as my face heats and pulses with shame. It works. After a minute, I no longer hear Sam’s continuation of my failures.
Although Nick has already finished eating, he remains in his seat, watching me with narrowed eyes. He interrupts and contradicts Sam occasionally, but I don’t hear what words are spoken. Eventually, I meet his gaze and grin like it’s no big deal that my entire existence is a waste of space in the world. But to voice such a thought out loud would be a pathetic display of self-pity.
Because if we’re unhappy with our circumstances, we should just change them. Right?
If you’re unhappy, just be happy.
If you’re stressed, just relax.
If you’re shy, just don’t be shy.
It’s that easy. Isn’t that what everyone says?
“I’m just looking out for you, Cor. I only want you to succeed,” Sam finishes.
* * *
A fter dinner, Sam lies down in bed to finish what’s left of a baseball game while I slowly wash the plates we used. Nick grabs the dish towel, ready to dry when I finish scrubbing at nothing, his mouth opening and closing at a loss for words.
Finally, he finds them. “What the fuck?”
I meet his gaze to determine if he’s wondering about my actions, or what Sam said. “What?”
“You just sat there and let him criticize you.”
Oh, the irony. “So you’re going to criticize me for it?”
I scrub the plate a little too hard and it slips from my grip, hitting the other plates in the sink. The clash reverberates through the air. Miraculously, it doesn’t break and I pick it up to rinse it off, then hold it out for Nick to take.
“I don’t mean to criticize you too, but you let him walk all over you.”
What exactly was I supposed to do? “I’m just looking out for you, Cor. I only want you to succeed.” How does one argue with that?
“Can we just not talk about it, please?” My cheeks could fry eggs. One would think I’d grown accustomed to the sensation by now, but my worst fear and clearest reality is shame.
He finally takes the plate from my hand. “Fine.”
“Fine.”
Silence falls between us as I clean the white sauce from the second ceramic plate, but he ruins the peace as I hand the plate to him.
“So, how was the salad?”
“Good.”
“How? There wasn’t anything on it. It was just chicken and leaves.”
“Yeah, well, the dressing that usually comes with it is full of sugar.”
“And?”
I lift a shoulder. “It’s what I always order from Francesca’s.”
There’s a clang as he stacks the dried plates together. “What you order? Or what he orders for you?”
I turn the water off and face him. I hate confrontation, but he’s determined to get on my nerves today. And after the struggle to keep myself from exploding at dinner, my patience is running thin. “What’s your problem?”
“Nothing. I just don’t like that you’re self-conscious about food. Your weight isn’t anyone else's business, and there’s nothing wrong with sugar now and then.”
“Good thing it’s none of your business, then, huh?”
He sets the towel on the counter and leans down. “Yeah, you’re a big girl, right? You can handle yourself?”
Not breaking his stare, I say, “I’m handling you right now.”
Despite the tension between us, his lips twitch at my word choice until he can’t hold back his amusement any longer. His smile spreads wide, flashing his white teeth.
“Ugh.” I turn back to the sink and flip the water back on to wash the remaining plate. “You know what I mean.”
I’d love more than anything to be one of those women that doesn’t take any crap from anyone, especially a man. Like Sage—she does what she wants when she wants and lets every criticizing comment and judgment roll off her shoulders. She doesn’t spend hours overthinking decisions, having been born knowing what she wanted from the world. But I wasn’t born decisive and confident. And I don’t know how to be that way.
As I’ve said before, confidence feels like arrogance to those who don’t come by it naturally. A combination of inferiority, fear of failure, of being in the wrong, of accidentally being disrespectful, and of feeling too much at once all keep me in my place.
Once the last plate is washed and dried, I wipe the counter down and turn to leave. But Nick grabs my arm.
“I’m sorry.” His brown eyes, like an espresso with a hint of caramel, bore into mine. But I don’t know what he’s apologizing for. He must read my face because he adds, “For everything. Accidentally telling him about the blog, then being an ass afterward.”
I take a small step backward and shake my head as I look away from the intensity in his eyes.
“You don’t have anything to apologize for. I shouldn’t have kept the blog from him.” I won’t mention the rest because, while he was frustrating me, he’s right—I should be stronger. I should stand up for myself. But at the same time, Sam’s right—I shouldn’t waste my time on things that won’t get me anywhere in life.
“Yes, I do. Because I caused you… pain? Discomfort? I don’t know what you’re feeling, but whatever it is, I did that. And I’m sorry.”
I don’t know what to do with my arms. I cross them, but that feels too defensive. I uncross them, only for them to dangle at my sides like I’ve never had arms before. I’m not used to people apologizing for the way they’ve made me feel, and I don’t know what to do with that either. My feelings are usually brushed off or dismissed as dramatic, leaving me stone-faced and numb.
He extends one of his large, calloused, hands. “Friends?”
I nod. “Friends.”
* * *
T he next morning, I wake with a jolt at five thirty and scramble around for ten minutes until I remember, I don’t have to work today. My muscles soften, a lazy grin appearing as I let the jeans I was about to put on fall to the floor, and slide back among the layers of bedding. Sam is already gone, probably at the gym, leaving me with the whole bed to myself. I struggle to fall asleep almost every night but slip into blissful sleep with ease now and don’t rise again until almost nine.
The sun blares through the cream-colored curtains enough that I squint on my way to the bathroom. I brush my teeth, not bothering to fix my hair or change out of the oversized t-shirt before going to the kitchen. Nick sits at the table typing something on his laptop. But when he lifts his head, his lips quirk to the side and he closes the computer and crosses his arms.
“Good morning,” I say as I get out a coffee mug.
“I’m glad you’re getting more comfortable around me.”
I press the brew button on the coffee machine. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Well, it looks like a bird got caught in your hair and died fighting its way out. And you’re not wearing pants.”
Turning to face him, I lift the hem of the t-shirt. “I have shorts on. The shirt is just big.”
He snorts. “And your hair?”
“You’re one to talk.” I stand before him, hands braced on the back of a chair, and raise my brows at the locks of dark hair sticking up on the side of his head. His hand flies up to feel, and his expression humbles.
“Oh.”
I fetch my coffee, add a couple of tablespoons of my homemade cinnamon roll creamer, and pull out a chair to join him at the table.
“What are you doing?” I ask, blowing the steam from the surface of my drink.
“I was taking an aptitude test, but I got distracted by news headlines.” He pulls his laptop towards him and opens it. “I’m sure there’s some brilliant science behind these questions, but I can’t see it.”
“Key word there is brilliant. Which you are not.” Friends joke around like this, right? I do with Hailey and even Tyler. But now that the words are out there, I panic. I peek at him over the rim of my mug to assuage his reaction. He grins, thank God.
“I see the claws are out this morning.”
A thought occurs to me as a comfortable silence descends, how we look sitting across from each other. If I were to write a poem about us, I’d start and end it with the same two lines:
The moon is dust, the sun is flame,
But they rise and fall the same.
* * *
“I t’s funny—you and I are very different, but we’re also very similar,” she says.
I lift my face from the screen. “What do you mean?”
“Our personalities are different, what makes us, us. You’re not paralyzed by shyness or insecurity, you were probably a cool kid growing up, and even our hobbies are different. But neither of us knows what to do with our lives.”
“I’m more insecure than you think.” I see what she means though—our pasts are different, yet we’re at the same stop in the road.
“I know it’s ridiculous, I know the injury wasn’t really my fault. But I can’t help but wonder if Mom feels like everything was a waste. Everything she did for me growing up. All the money spent on cleats and pads when we could barely afford our bills. I was so selfish and I didn’t realize it until everything was over.” Mom has been the absolute best mother, always sacrificing, never complaining. The kind of mom who’s proud of me regardless of what I do. But every time she says the words, a stone sinks low in my belly. I haven’t done anything to be proud of.
Cori remains silent, not taking her eyes off mine. I worry I’ve taken us too deep into my issues, that I’ve unsettled her.
Finally, she says the last thing I expected her to say, “I can see that.” She must see the confusion on my face because she adds, “I mean if I were in your shoes, I’d probably think the same thing.”
I assumed she’d tell me to stop being stupid, to stop tearing myself up over an injury I had no control over. I’m not sure how to feel about being told the opposite. That I should feel guilty.
“I blame myself for literally everything,” she says, voice barely above a whisper.
“But you shouldn’t.”
“You can tell me that all day long.” She lifts her shoulder. “Just like I could tell you all day long that your injury wasn’t your fault. But it won’t change how we feel deep down.”
I glance off into the distance, my eyes losing focus as I think about her words.
“I’m not saying I agree with your feelings, exactly. For the record, I don’t think you have any reason to feel guilty. But I know how self-blame works. I feel guilty for just existing most days.” I meet her stare and she just shrugs. Like it’s perfectly normal to be ashamed for existing.
“But, why?” Does she have some dark secret, some horrible sin that she committed that I don’t know about?
Her eyes narrow at my tone, but she doesn’t answer.
Did she take and take from her mom until she had nothing left and no energy from working several jobs just to pay for an extracurricular activity? Is she the reason her mom didn’t go to college, or the reason her dad drank their money away until he finally lost it and just abandoned his family?
My blood is boiling with frustration at this woman. She could have everything she’d ever dreamed of if she’d only get up and take it. Instead, she lies down and lets people walk all over her.
She doesn’t have any immovable boulders blocking her path to happiness, only herself.
“You and I are nothing alike. Sure, we may both be locked in a cage, but you have the key in your hand. You can reach out and unlock your door.” I stand from the table and grab my laptop, adding before I start for my room, “Mine was welded shut and the keyhole filled in.”
“That’s just one door.”
I halt in my tracks. “What do you mean?”
“The door to football may be welded shut, but you have the key in your hand also. And you have other doors leading you from your cage. We all do. You just don’t know which one to go through. Neither do I.”
My hand runs through my hair while I stand there like an idiot. All of this metaphor talk has my head spinning.
In truth, I don’t want to admit that I’m holding myself back too. I want to continue blaming my injury. I want my jealousy of men like Sam to be justified because I can’t accept that simple explanation—sometimes life just isn’t fair.
Slowly, I set my laptop back down on the table, but I remain standing.
“You’re right.”
“I know,” she responds quickly.
I meet her eyes and snort at her sudden cockiness, and her returned, close-lipped smile smooths out any lingering tension.
I think back to what Mom said yesterday, about everyone being insecure about something. It’s why I finally admitted it moments ago.
Some take those insecurities out on other people, while others take them out on themselves.
I took it out on Cori just now.
“I’m sorry,” I say while she picks at her coffee mug.
She bites her cheek and says softly, “It’s okay. It’s nothing I haven’t said to myself before.”
I shake my head. “It’s not okay, Cori. And you shouldn’t accept that from me or anyone.” I’d love to understand, to know what in her past has made her feel so unworthy, but I don’t want to push. I open my laptop once again and turn the screen to her. “Truth is, it’s been a rough morning. I was filling out the questions and opened a new tab to search something. Then I saw this headline.”
She reads the headline out loud. “Offensive tackle Grant Peters signs $63 million contract extension.” The words spoken aloud pierce my heart. “Peters. He was the player that fell on you?”
I nod. It’s irrational to blame him. It’s not any more his fault than it is mine. But jealousy doesn’t care about semantics. It only considers the fact that he’s living my dream.