Six Years Ago Summer
Just run like five yards and then look over your shoulder, and I’ll throw you the ball.
” Declan is trying to coax me into the idea of pretending to be his wide receiver.
It’s the summer before our junior year and he’s antsy to start practice with his new team.
We’re facing off in the middle of Seabrook High’s empty football field, a rare misting of dew coating the perfectly grass-green turf beneath us.
“I don’t think you’re understanding me,” I retort. “I have never been good at running with my legs and simultaneously using my arms.”
Declan stares back at me with a disbelieving half-smirk, so I forge on.
“Let alone using my eyes to track the ball at the same time. It’s not happening.”
“Okay, fine. I’ll tell you a secret.” He throws the ball as high as it will go and lets it hit the top of his head on the way down. I flinch when it lands, but he doesn’t react in the slightest. It topples to the ground and bounces side to side like a fish out of water before settling.
“Wh— How did you—”
“This is a fake football,” he supplies, reaching to pick it up off the ground. “It’s made out of foam.” He squishes it, showcasing how easily it molds to his grip.
“Oh.” I blink twice. “And why do you, two-time state champion quarterback, have a fake football?”
He looks down, flipping the football-disguised piece of foam in his hands. One stray lock of brownish-blond hair flops over his forehead.
“Because I wanted to practice with you.”
“So…” My eyes narrow. “You only bought it to play with—”
“Yes,” he says with force. “With you specifically. So, you have to at least try to run a few yards and catch it now that I’ve confessed that.”
The admission does something I don’t want to name to my chest.
“Seems fair. Hurry up then.” I clap my hands together before breaking into a sprint. Mostly so he can’t see the blush creeping up on my cheeks at the thought of him going to the store and buying a foam football just to spend this mundane summer evening playing catch with me.
I have no gauge for how far five yards is so I sprint until I hit a white line and then look over my shoulder. To no one’s surprise, by the time I turn around the ball is flying toward me faster than my eyes can communicate to my arms to respond.
Declan laughs when the foam football hits my face.
It kisses my nose before bouncing off in a cartoonish arc.
It’s too squishy to hurt, so I descend into self-pitying chuckles, coming to a stop and letting my arms hang limply at my sides in defeat.
Meanwhile, Declan peels over at the waist in a fit of full-on cackles.
I stand there watching him with my lips pressed together in an ironic, self-evident display of pity, overstating how correct my previous objections to this idea were. I’d have the nerve to actually be annoyed if he didn’t look so cute laughing.
It’s like his face can’t take the weight of his joy, so it has no choice but to crumple beneath it.
Lines bracket his mouth like parentheses, and a specific spot above his cheek is creased down with nowhere to go.
After another second, he collects himself, pushing off his knees to stand up straight and walk over to me.
His face becomes my entire view, obscuring the damp blades of fake grass and the bright yellow field goal post.
“I told you! “I wouldn’t have been able to catch that ball if my life depended on it.”
“Are you okay?” he tries to say through leftover laughter, still filtering itself out of his body.
“Yes,” I reply, deadpan. “I am fine. But unfortunately for you, I don’t think I’ll be a good partner with whom to practice your throws. Just like I predicted.”
“With whom, huh?” he volleys, eyebrows rising in that challenging way that sends a tingle of awareness up my spine.
“Mm-hmm. With whom indeed.” I nod defiantly. “I think I’ll stick to reading my books. Sixteen-year-olds casually overthrowing kingdoms, etcetera.”
“Right. But can’t you do that and continue being my football partner?” At my stony look he adds, “Please?,” eyebrows tenting upward in a pitiful plea.
“I don’t think I’ll be much help training you to become a good quarterback if your practice buddy can’t catch any balls. Good or bad throw? Won’t matter. They’ll all land right here.” I point to the tip of my nose.
In a shocking display of affection, Declan grabs my wrist from my face and says, “No, come on. No football buddy would look half as cute as you did when it hit your face.”
My heart thuds double time as soon as the word cute escapes Declan’s wide mouth. We might have known each other since before we could string multiple sentences together, but it didn’t change the fact that Declan was turning into a boy who made me wonder what I looked like from his point of view.
He was no longer suffering from the awkward stage.
He shed his thick, black-framed glasses and developed a throatiness to his voice that made my mind wander while he spoke.
Long gone was the five-year-old boy I met on the strawberry farm who was too mousy to speak.
Now, he led football teams. He carried himself with authority and ease.
If my thoughts had unnoticeably drifted from normal, friend-like thoughts into territory like this, did his too?
Did he consider how I had been changing?
Cute.
It wasn’t a fair word in this context. It had too many possible meanings and potential margins for error.
Cute, like little-sister cute? Pathetic, helpless cute? Or cute, like… the type he’d want to kiss-cute?
My brain manages to contemplate all those thoughts in one held breath.
Finally, I exhale, realizing he’s still gripping my wrist and awaiting a response.
So, of course, I go with a tight, sardonic “Sure” before breaking into a sprint again.
I clap my hands like an overeager penguin while I wait for him to throw the ball.
His face softens with a satisfied smile.
“Atta girl,” he says in a low voice. He launches the ball at me again, and this time I catch it, but my eyes are squeezed shut, so I topple over, falling onto my butt and then rolling over my shoulder as if the misty turf had a downward tilt. It was perfectly level.
Finally, I open my eyes to see Declan’s shoes.
“First of all,” he starts, crouching down to get in my line of sight, “you should be proud of yourself.”
I croak out a scoff that comes out louder than intended.
“And why’s that?”
“Look down.” He gestures at me with a nod.
I look down to find the football safely held in my arms despite the backward shoulder roll I survived.
“You protected the ball at all costs. Which is pretty much the number one rule. I think you might be better at this than you think.” He says it like a proud coach.
“Huh. Well, would you look at that. Now, help me up please. I think I’ve done my job.”
Declan stretches his hand toward me to grab, so I do. But instead of using it to pull myself up, I tug down with all my strength.
“Oof, what are you—” He chuckles, allowing me to drag him down to the turf beside me. Emphasis on “allow,” because I know he could have resisted my weak pull if he wanted to. I, however, am realizing I’m not capable of the same when it comes to him.
He faux tumbles, careful to avoid hitting me with his sprawling limbs, and then settles onto the bright green turf next to me, leaning back on his elbows.
Declan always looks like he’s been lounging somewhere for hours before you’ve happened upon him, even if he just arrived in the position a second ago.
“What was number two?” I fish.
“Hmm?” He breathes through his nose, tilting his head at me.
“You said ‘first of all,’ and then never told me what was second of all.”
“Oh. Right.” He nods and looks up at the sky. “Forgive me for forgetting my next point. A little birdie took my kind offer for help and dragged me down with her.”
A laugh escapes me, chest feeling warm at the easy camaraderie I’ve always shared with him. He runs a hand through his hair, gaze fixing on the empty bleachers. I wonder if he’s imagining them filled.
“Come on, what was it?” I nudge my elbow into his side.
“Okay, fine. I was going to leave off on my compliment, but if you wanna force my hand, you force my hand.”
I’m staring at his frame, shoulders wider than they were a year before, hair longer, still waiting for his response.
He stills and looks back at me. But then his eyes seem to drift to something slightly above my head.
I’m confused until he reaches out to smooth down my hair.
It must have looked like a bird’s nest from all my tumbling.
“I was going to say,” he starts, voice gravelly as his hand slows on its path down my head.
I feel his fingers on the crown of my head all the way down to my toes.
“You looked like a baby bird getting shoved out of the nest for the first time trying to catch that ball.” He delivers the words slowly, tone drier than the desert, so it takes me a moment to process the words.
“Oh my gosh!” I squeak, pushing his hand off my head in exasperation as I realize I’ve been caught in a bit. “And here I was waiting for the next compliment.”
He laughs with his head down, the perfect display of a delighted boy who has pulled off his joke.
“Mm-hmm,” I hum. “But let’s consider if this is the insult you think it is.
Birds must be pushed out of the nest at some point to fly, and plus, they can be cute.
” I clamp my lips shut. I’ve accidentally referred to myself as cute in the most roundabout way possible.
“What bird species are we talking here? Duck?” I ask in an attempt to clear his memory of it.
“You? A duck?” he muses, looking me up and down like he’s considering the thought. “Nah. Not a duck.”
“Okay. Not a duck girl. Noted. How about a flamingo?”
“Oh, definitely not a flamingo.”
“Why not a flamingo? They’re sophisticated. And pink.”
“Have you seen a flamingo’s face up close?” he retorts, looking taken aback.
I rack my memory. “I don’t think so.”
“Well, it’s definitely not the look you’re going for. They’re like the lawyers of birds.” He shudders and I cough a shocked laugh. “You would be more of a…” He runs a hand along his jaw, pretending to be deep in thought.
I stare at his outrageously sarcastic expression, eyes looking up like the answer is just beyond his reach.
“Oh! I got it!” He snaps and points at me. “A blue-footed booby. That’s what you looked like.”
“A what?” I sneer. “Did you just call me a booby? What is this? Seventh grade?”
“No, no, no! A blue-footed booby,” he says, slower this time, elongating every word.
“Oh. Duh. A blue-footed booby,” I repeat as if it’s suddenly obvious.
I stare at him with a blank expression. He stares back with a satisfied grin.
“AND WHAT IS THAT?”
“They’re these birds that have blue feet who walk funny and do a weird little dance when they’re trying to find a mate,” he continues, unfazed by my outburst.
I arch my brows in suspicion at the word mate.
“It was mostly just the blue feet and clumsy part that I was referring to,” he clarifies, pointing to my feet, which are donned in baby blue high-top Converse.
“Ahh, I see. I’m a blue-footed booby,” I conclude, nodding my head in faux understanding. “Of course, you would know a bird like that, you nerd.”
He shrugs with his arms up like, “Don’t shoot the messenger.”
If Declan hadn’t been blessed with football quarterback genes, his mental Rolodex of fun facts would’ve land-locked him in the nerd category at school immediately. No one gets away with knowing that much information about a niche bird species without looking like that.
“Funny little dance though? I’d pay to see that,” I continue.
“You don’t have to. Wait here. I’ll show you.” He pops up and sprints over to our pile of belongings at the beginning of the field, digging for his phone under his crewneck, and then sprints back to me.
I watch over his shoulder as he maneuvers to YouTube and types “blue-footed booby mating dance” into the search bar.
He clicks on a National Geographic video and turns his phone horizontally for me to watch as two birds stand awkwardly beside each other, picking up their absurdly aqua-colored feet and putting them back down. They really are bright blue.
Declan chuckles and then points at the screen. “Watch. If that wasn’t enough, they start showing off their wings. And even better, if they really wanna win them over, they offer the females a gift. Like a little pebble or a stick.”
I watch as a white-bellied bird tosses the tiniest pebble you’ve ever seen into the other bird’s line of sight. And that’s all it takes I guess, because next thing you know the female joins in and starts dancing with him.
“Awww, that is too cute,” I coo behind his ear.
A text drops down on his screen, interrupting the video.
I try not to read it but the text is in all caps so it’s kind of difficult to avoid.
There’s a guy’s name and the words “DECLAN! ANSWER YOUR PHONE! ARE WE SCOOPING, OR NAH?” underneath it.
He quickly swipes it away and says, “Oops. Sorry about that.”
“No, it’s fine. Looks like they really need to reach you.”
“Oh, it’s nothing. Some of the new teammates are going to Murphy’s Drive-Thru tonight.”
“You should go!” I say, even though it makes my heart dip into my stomach as I do.
But only the normal amount of disappointment when you’re having fun and don’t want it to end, of course.
It’s not because if we stop hanging out now, I’ll have to spend the hours before normal bedtime warding off replays of each scene of our day in painful detail.
Overanalyzing each moment and then overanalyzing why I’m overanalyzing our friendship and if it means I’m starting to develop feelings that would ruin it.
“No, no really, it’s fine. I don’t want to,” he insists.
“Oh right. I forgot you bought this entire ball for me.” I hold up the foam ball, trying to make a joke out of the situation, but the tops of his cheeks turn pink and I realize what I’ve said has too much truth. I’ll be thinking about that particular shade of pink for days to come.
He bought a foam football to play with me alone, and is still here when he could be getting burgers with his teammates.
I scramble to my feet and mumble something about needing to get more practice in if I want to stop looking like a blue-footed booby. I try to move past how off-balance the sight of his embarrassment throws me.
That night, as I crawled into bed, sore from exerting myself on the empty football field, my phone lit up with a single text from Declan.
Good work out there, Little Bird.
I drifted off to sleep with a dumb smile on my face. My dreams were filled with birds with hilariously bright cerulean feet, dancing and offering pebbles to win each other’s affection.