Chapter 17
Lucy
I’ve been at Loretta and Martin’s for less than an hour, and I feel like I know these people already. In a good way.
When I showed up in the gathering room in the main building of their senior living community, Loretta was so excited to see me that she wrapped me and my slow cooker in another one of her pillowy hugs.
“You came!” she cheered. “I’m so glad you did. Let me introduce you to everyone.”
I didn’t even have time to get panicky about who “everyone” was and what they might think of me or if they’d seen the footage of me calling them “stupid” …
at least by proxy. Three other ladies swarmed us, all similar in age to Loretta, and started talking all at once.
No one seemed to recognize me, and if they did, they didn’t call attention to my very public faux pax.
“We need some young blood around here,” a woman named Carol said. “I try to stay up with the times. Tell me, Dolly, what exactly is the rizz?”
“Isn’t that the fancy hotel in New York?” a woman named Titi spoke up.
“That’s The Ritz,” Carol corrected with a huff.
“The Ritz is my favorite kind of cracker,” Susie added. “I get myself a plateful and add some pepperoni and some artisan cheese and voilà, girl dinner!”
It was all I had in me not to cover my mouth to bury a laugh. “Rizz is like charisma,” I told them. “You ladies have it in spades.”
Loretta’s pale blue eyes twinkled, and they reminded me so much of TJ’s that I had to stop myself from blurting out something stupid like, You know who else has rizz in spades?
Loretta’s grandson, who I can’t stop thinking about and who, it turns out, I’m basing an entire book character off, without his knowledge or consent.
These thoughts tumbled around in my brain, but Loretta hooked her arm through mine. “You’re going to fit right in here, I can tell. Come on, let’s make the rounds.”
The chaos has only ratcheted up from there.
Good chaos. I’ve received several compliments on Dad’s chili recipe, and while I knew it would be hard, it’s actually been really nice to remember him—to talk about him when people ask where my recipe originates.
I love Ruby and Kait and Hilary—I totally lucked out where our blended family is concerned—but my stepmom and stepsisters live big and loud lives, and it sometimes feels like they’re going at a hundred miles per hour with the show and the social media and the brand deals, and Dad’s memory seems to get buried.
This has been a good reminder that it’s okay to talk about him.
That it won’t kill me, and that it actually might make me feel better.
I pull out my phone and snap a picture of Loretta, who has her head tipped together with Titi, Susan, and Carol as the square dance instructor begins her spiel. I send a message to Cassie, Philly, and Bex.
Lucy
Can this be us someday, pretty please?
Their responses are immediate.
Philly
YES PLEASE!
Cassie
Dibs on being the one with the good cowboy boots.
I smile at the older ladies. Carol is the one rocking the bright red boots, and it seems very appropriate that Cassie would notice. Her attention to detail and eye for the latest trends is impeccable. It’s what makes her a killer literary agent.
Bex
Where is this!?
Lucy
Bayview Senior Living’s chili cook-off and square dance, obviously.
Bex
Obviously …
But why?
Philly
What Bex means is that it’s so great that you’re getting out there, meeting new people. Proud of you, honey!
Cassie
Even if those people are forty to fifty years your senior
Bex
Yep, glad you’re out and about, Lu. But again, I’ll ask, why there?
I nibble on my bottom lip.
Lucy
TJ’s grandma invited me. I couldn’t say no.
Figured with this crowd, nobody would care much about poor, disgraced Lucy Dupree.
Nobody responds for a solid minute. I start to wonder if they’ve jumped to a group chat offshoot, without me in it, so they can talk about me behind my back.
Lucy
Hello? Anyone home? Guys, it’s no big deal.
Cassie
First of all, you’re not a disgrace.
I can practically hear Cassie’s firm tone, and it makes me smile.
Cassie
Second of all, are you alone there?
Bex
Cut to the chase, Cass. Is TJ there too?
Lucy
No.
Philly
Boooo! We want TJ! Give us more TJ.
I laugh despite myself.
Lucy
He had practice tonight, but he said he might come later.
Cassie
Look at you, knowing the comings and goings of one very attractive, very available professional football player
A flush creeps up my neck.
Lucy
It’s not like that. He’s story inspo. Nothing more. Nothing less.
I tap out of the message string with my friends and over to my text conversation with TJ. If you can even call it a conversation. I read it back, as I’ve done no fewer than twenty times this week.
TJ
Hi Lucy, this is TJ. Thanks for coming tonight.
Lucy
Hey, thanks for having me.
TJ
My grandparents’ place is at Bayview Senior Living. 333 Bayview Lane, Green Bay.
Lucy
I frown at my screen. That’s it. That’s the end of it. He didn’t respond. Which is something I should absolutely not be overthinking. But I absolutely, positively am overthinking.
Did he text me to tell me his grandparents’ address and then, when said task was completed, he figured he’d done his duty and was done with me? Did he get distracted by another message from someone else who was way more entertaining and wittier and funnier?
It was his turn to respond, right? And he didn’t.
End of text conversation. End of story.
“Hey, there.” The sound of TJ’s low voice behind me has me jumping in my seat. I fumble with my phone, and it drops to the ground.
I quickly bend over and snatch it up, checking the screen for a crack.
“Sorry to startle you,” TJ says with an easy smile, but there’s a glimmer of hesitation in his gaze, an uncertainty that hasn’t been there when we’ve interacted before.
“You’re fine. I’m always clumsy. Not your fault.” I set my phone face down on the table. “You’re here,” I say, and heat licks at my cheeks. Duh.
TJ looks effortlessly handsome, and it’s unfair, really. He’s in gray sweatpants and a sweatshirt, but it’s all working for him. He must’ve gotten a haircut since Sunday, because there’s a design shaved into the close-cut hair behind his ear.
“It’s a lightning bolt.”
I blink and meet his eye. He rubs the patch of hair.
“It’s new.” I’m knocking it out of the park over here with my observational and conversational skills. No one would ever guess that words are literally my job.
“Thanks for noticing.”
I blink back at him, because I’m incapable of coming up with anything to say in response.
“It’s a tradition this time of year for me and the other backfield guys,” he goes on. “We all get designs like this in December.”
“Oh. That’s cool.” I don’t know what a backfield guy is, but I’ll figure that out later.
He arches his brows and raises his hand, rubbing it over the design again. His lips droop on either end, and he shifts his gaze away from me. “Do you hate it or what?”
I shake my head quickly. “No. Not at all. I think it’s sexy.”
Truthfully, I’d like to run my fingers over his hair, getting a feel for the lightning bolt carving myself.
For research purposes.
I make a mental note to have my MMC, Theo, have some sort of playoff tradition like this with his teammates.
Maybe he’ll buzz his head altogether. It could be an intimate moment between him and the FMC, Monica.
She could tentatively ask if she could run her hands through his hair, or lack thereof, and then she could feel self-conscious about it and turn to walk away, but he’d grab her wrist and slowly bring it up to the top of his head, bending slightly so she could have better access to run her hand over his buzzcut.
I swallow, coming back to myself, even as my fingers itch to touch TJ’s hair … I mean, to go write the scene.
“Sexy, huh? Good to know.” He’s smiling broadly.
Dismay and pleasure slosh around in my gut as I replay what I admitted to him. What is wrong with me? Sure, sexy was the first word that came to my mind, but why couldn’t I find my filter when the moment called for it? Have I learned nothing after the People’s Picks?
“Objectively sexy. I mean, friend to friend, I thought it was good for you to know it looks good. Objectively speaking.”
I’m making this worse.
“Are we friends?” TJ asks, and he’s back with the uncertainty in his gaze.
“Oh.” I tug in a breath. “Uh, I thought so. I don’t want to assume, but didn’t we decide that at your house?”
He nods. “You said we were friends, but I didn’t know if you meant it. You thumbs-upped me.”
I furrow my brow. “Pardon?”
He fishes his phone out of the pocket of his sweatshirt.
Note to self: Write Theo wearing a sweatshirt in a future scene. Have him loan it to Monica. I’d love to get a feel for the fleece lining of TJ’s sweatshirt right about now.
“See?” TJ holds up the phone, screen facing me. “You thumbs-upped, and that was it.”
“I’m sorry? Was I not supposed to?”
“I thought you didn’t want anything to do with me.”
“That’s what a thumbs-up means?” I pitch my brows. “I was letting you know I got your message. When you didn’t respond, I figured you didn’t want anything else to do with me.”
“I’d like everything to do with you.” My pulse spikes. He clears his throat. “As a friend,” he amends.
I refrain from fanning my face, but barely. The man standing in front of me is a known flirt. He doesn’t really mean anything by those words. But it is nice to know he wants to be my friend.
“I didn’t want to press if I was making you uncomfortable,” TJ goes on.
“I’d already forced you to come to dinner at my place.
Then my gram all but forced you here. We were being flirty and fun together.
Or at least, I thought we were.” He waves his hands around like he doesn’t know what to do with them, and it’s oddly endearing to see him off his game.
“When you gave me a thumbs-up, I figured that was your polite way of ending the conversation.”
“That wasn’t my intention. Leave it to me to give standoffish vibes via text,” I huff out a self-deprecating laugh. “I guess I’ve been hiding myself away for so long, I don’t know how to interact with people in a normal way.”
“It’s not your fault. I could have responded differently instead of leaving you hanging. Honestly, the thumbs-up thing is probably more of a me issue. I let my own insecurities get in the way.”
Huh. My writer instinct twitches. Self-aware and self-reflective. Check and check. I need to give Theo a scene that exemplifies both. It’ll endear readers to him, and it’ll make Monica see him for who he is—a genuinely good guy.
“Sorry if you were expecting me to respond and I left you hanging,” TJ concludes.
I wave him off, even though, judging from the relief coursing throughout my entire body, I needed to hear those words. It’s really nice having someone tell me I’m not the problem. It’s felt like I’m the problem a lot lately.
“You’re fine,” I say aloud. “Can we start over?” I hold out my hand. “Hi, I’m Lucy Dupree, and I’d very much like to be your friend. I have to admit, I’m not usually fun or flirty. What you saw of me at the gala wasn’t really who I am.”
TJ engulfs my hand in his. His skin is calloused and warm, and the squeeze he gives my fingers sends lightning shooting up the length of my arm. “I guess we’ll see about that.”
The words feel like a challenge and a promise entwined in a double helix formation. My heart feels like it has grown legs and is scampering about like an excited octopus. My writer brain knows that’s a terrible analogy because octopuses swim in water, but I’m going with it anyway.
TJ’s soul-searching gaze makes me feel like he wants to know everything there is to know about me. I only hope he’s not disappointed with what he finds out. He sinks into the chair next to me. “So, what did I miss? Did Carol’s chili make anyone cry this year?”
My eyes widen, trying to remember which chili sample belongs to her. “Not sure. Which one is Carol’s? Is it that bad?”
“Not bad at all. Just wickedly spicy.”
“Ah.” I nod. “Must’ve been this one.” I point to the empty bowl at the corner of my tray. “It was delicious. That’s my second bowl.”
TJ lets out a low whistle. “Impressive. Not many people finish Carol’s chili, historically.”
I shrug. “I like it hot.”
“Noted.” TJ winks, and if only the floor would swallow me whole, because seriously? I walked right into that one, like the talking-to-hot-men-newbie I am.
I bury my face in my hands. “The chili,” I mumble. “I meant the chili.”
He just laughs.
“I’m such a dweeb,” I say between my fingers. I’m not flirty or fun. I’m a walking, talking, personified foot-in-mouth. “When I tell you I’m out of practice with people, you see what I mean now?” Why do I have to give oxygen to the first thought that pops into my brain?
“Quit it.” He reaches over and pulls my hands away from my face. “I like looking at you.”