14. Cecelia #2
“You’ve got…” he gestures to my shoulder and when I stare at him blankly, his hand comes up, fingers brushing against my shoulder. A jolt goes through me when his skin touches mine. He pulls his hand back, revealing the clump of grass he’d pulled from my shoulder.
“Oh,” I say stupidly, looking anywhere but at his face. I’m afraid if I look at him right now, after feeling that zap of electricity, I might do something absolutely insane. Like try to touch him. Or pull his head down to—
“Thanks,” I say, jumping up from the grass. “I guess I should hit the showers.”
“Sounds good.” He seems a little off too, more tense than he usually is. “I’ll, uh, text you, I guess? About the party, I mean.”
“Sure!” My voice sounds silly in my ears, overeager and way too bright. Fake. “That would be good. I mean. If you guys can come.” Shit, what is wrong with me right now? Get out of here, a warning voice in my head tells me. Get far away before you do something you can’t take back.
I lift a hand, already turning on my heel. “See you later!” I call over my shoulder. If he responds I don’t hear it—I’m too busy running to the locker room to hide.
“CeCe,” Violet says from the doorway to my bedroom. “What is wrong with you right now? Why are you acting like this?”
I blow my hair out of my face and look over at my cousin. “Acting like what?”
She waves her hands around me and the mess of discarded clothes on my bed. “Acting like you care what you wear tonight.”
I stiffen. Apparently, I’m being more transparent than I thought.
“Like you don’t go through a dozen outfit changes before you decide what you want to wear to a party.”
“I do do that,” she agrees. “But you are not me. And when I’m picking my outfits, you’re usually out in the living room bitching about how I’m taking too long.”
She has a point. It’s not that I don’t care about how I look or that I never make an effort.
It’s just that I designed my entire wardrobe and makeup routine so that I don’t have to put a lot of thought into it.
I know what works on my body (tank tops and jeans, high-heeled boots when I’m feeling fancy) and what works on my face (mascara, liner, and the perfect shade of lipstick).
My hair is too often sweaty from practice and workouts for me to ever spend time on it.
A high ponytail or a braid works just fine.
I like the way I look. My body is strong and well-taken care of.
My face looks like my mom, and she’s the most beautiful person I know.
I like my personal style. I like the attention I get from boys—when I’m in the mood to deal with them.
I have my share of flaws. My boobs will never be as big as Violet’s and my hair will never be as bouncy and soft as Vega’s.
But I refuse to waste time getting upset about things I can’t change.
So why am I feeling so stressed right now? This isn’t even a real party—just some friends coming over to drink and hang out at our house.
Some friends and the guy you have a big, fat crush on.
I collapse back onto my bed, groaning. I may as well tell her—if he shows up here tonight, she’s going to know exactly why I was freaking out about clothes, and it will be worse, because she’ll think me not telling her means I’m sensitive about it.
“I invited Solomon. I don’t even know if he’s going to come, and I don’t know why I care what I look like if he does.” I grab a pillow and shove it over my face so I can’t see what is sure to be a smug expression on her face.
She wrestles the pillow away—I put up a good fight—and smiles down at me. “Ugh,” I groan, pointing at her. “I thought you were going to be smug but that smile is even worse.”
“What’s wrong with my smile?”
“It’s all…soft. And knowing. Too sweet.”
She laughs and hits me with the pillow. “You’re a ridiculous human.”
I gesture around at the clothes. “Obviously.”
Vi rolls her eyes. “Not because you care about what you look like, weirdo. Everyone cares about what they look like when they’re going to see a crush.”
“He’s not my crush,” I say automatically.
Her lips twitch. “Fine. Everyone cares about what they look like when they’re going to see an objectively hot guy.”
“He’s so hot,” I groan, and then bury my face in the pillow once more as she laughs.
“That’s not a bad thing, Ceece.”
I pull the pillow away and glare at her.
“Of course it’s a bad thing! I’m literally not allowed to be more than friends with this guy—it would get him in trouble with his clinicals.
Not that I think he’d want to get involved anyhow.
” I picture how serious Solomon always is, how professional and unaffected.
“His clinicals won’t last forever,” she points out. “I don’t see why you guys can’t get to know each other for a while and then later you could…” she shrugs. “See what happens.”
“I don’t do that, Vi. I don’t get to know guys. I hook up with them when I feel like it.”
“It’s okay to like someone, Ceece.” When I scowl, she rolls her eyes. “Did you honestly think you were going to go your entire life without a boyfriend?”
The word sends a jolt of something like panic through me.
“I have no time for or interest in a boyfriend. This is the most important soccer season of my life.” My panic turns into a low ache deep in my belly.
It feels like my last chance to catch the attention of the people in charge of the national team.
Maybe that’s silly—I have another year of college play ahead of me—but after my injury and missing so much playing time, I can’t help but worry they’re already close to writing me off.
Violet must see something in my face because she sighs and climbs up on the bed next to me, laying down with her head on my shoulder. “I wish I could make you see how phenomenal you really are, CeCe.”
I shift next to her, uncomfortable. “I don’t think my problem has ever been lack of ego, Vi.”
She laughs softly. “You have plenty of ego when it comes to playing soccer and bossing everyone around,” she admits.
“But you don’t seem to put as much stock in that huge, generous heart of yours.
” She kisses the side of my face. “There’s a lot of room in that heart, babe.
Enough for your family, soccer, and a boy—if that’s what you decide you want. ”
A lump comes to my throat. I think about Solomon, so quiet and calm. Sure of himself. Helping the kids at camp. Getting me set up on a horse with quiet, steady efficiency. Before I lose my nerve, I open my mouth to whisper, “I can’t see him ever going for someone like me.”
Her voice gets a little harder, like she doesn’t like where this is going. “Someone like you?”
“You know. Loud. Over the top. Bossy. Annoying.”
“CeCe.” She’s quiet for a moment. “Your personality is a selling point. You know that, right?” When I don’t say anything, she lifts her head from my shoulder, balancing on her elbow to look down at me.
“You say loud and over the top, I say full of life. And you’re not bossy, at least not in a negative way—you’re confident and capable.
Not to mention driven. The most loyal human I’ve ever met.
A fighter.” She shakes her head. “Need me to go on?”
The lump in my throat feels really big now. Aunt Daisy’s side of the family is really big on expressing feelings and shit. It can be a little overwhelming.
And really, really nice.
“I notice you didn’t correct my use of annoying,” I manage to say, and she grins.
“Oh, you’re annoying as hell.” Then she jumps off the bed and tugs on my arm. “I won’t torture you with yucky emotional stuff anymore. Come on—let’s get you dressed.”