CHAPTER FIFTY
Dublin
The game blares from the television as I stare at the tiny, numbered spaces on the canvas in front of me.
The section I’m currently attempting to paint is supposed to be a flower. Or maybe a lighthouse. I purse my lips and stare at it. Honestly? I’ve done such a shitty job that it could be a dead squirrel at this point, and I wouldn’t know the difference.
“You got quiet,” my mom says through my phone’s speaker. “You must be painting outside the lines again.”
I snort. “You say that like there were ever lines to begin with.”
“There are literally lines, Buggie,” my dad says. “That’s the whole point of a paint-by-number.”
“I’m aware of the concept,” I say sarcastically. “Thank you though.”
“You’ve always been impatient,” my mom says.
“I am not impatient.” I so am.
“Says the girl who skipped instructions when you built Lego sets,” my dad says. “There’s a reason there were always so many missing pieces when we finished and a crumbling structure.”
“I called it efficiency,” I joke and dip the brush in another of the ten shades of blue the paint kit gave me, pretty sure it’s the wrong shade.
The crowd erupts on the television and the reason I’m trying to paint this damn thing in the first place, to calm my nerves, disappears instantly as my attention snaps just as Cole drops into the pocket.
I’m already half standing, half hoping, half worrying. Since when do I get so nervous about sports?
Since the man you love is the epicenter of the one you’re watching.
His line shifts around him and Cole steps up. “C’mon,” I shout as he throws and when the ball lands in Wolfe’s hands in the end zone, I throw my hands up, paintbrush flying out of it at the same time. “Touchdown!”
“Hell of a pass,” my dad says immediately.
I smile without realizing it as the replay shows Cole jogging downfield, teammates swarming him, and a grin on his face as he takes his helmet off.
“He looks good tonight,” my dad says.
“He does,” I murmur softly.
Too softly, apparently, because my mom goes, “Ohhhhh.”
My eyes narrow instantly. “Don’t start.”
“I didn’t say anything,” she says.
“You made a sound.”
“A very telling sound,” my dad says.
My mom ignores him. “He’s very handsome.”
“Oh my God,” I groan.
“What? He is. I have eyes, Buggie.”
“And apparently no boundaries,” my dad adds.
“When do we get to meet him?” she asks casually, or rather she thinks it’s casual but it’s not.
I reach for my wine and take a sip. “I don’t know.”
“What? It’s a reasonable question,” she says. “It would be nothing for us to take a little road trip down to see you.”
“I don’t want to scare him away just yet,” I tease.
There’s a pause and then my dad asks, “Is it serious?”
Heat crawls up my cheeks as my gaze drifts back to Cole on the sidelines, standing next to Lucas and reviewing something on the chart Lucas is holding.
Yeah. I’ve got it bad.
“Oh,” my mom says softly. Apparently, my silence informed her of the same. “It is serious.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to,” she says.
My dad chuckles softly. “Buggie, you used to give us full presentations about boys you only kind of liked.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did,” he says. “PowerPoints to be exact.”
“There were charts,” my mom adds.
“There were not charts,” I say.
“There were definitely charts,” she says, laughing.
I drop my forehead into my hand and laugh despite myself. “I hate both of you.”
“No, you don’t,” she murmurs.
And she’s right. I don’t.
The game cuts to halftime coverage and one glance at my paint-by-numbers has me cringing. Yet another failed attempt at relaxing.
I sigh.
“The painting is that bad?” my dad asks, somehow reading my sigh.
“You have no idea,” I mutter.
“Well at least your love life doesn’t have lines that need to be painted in, right?”
“Funny, Dad. Real funny.”