14. Allie
ALLIE
Age Seventeen
The parking lot is packed when I finally find a spot and pull my keys from the ignition. Of course, it’s in the fucking back, so I’m forced to jog toward the gym, already late.
I’ve never attended the signing days at my school, but I suppose I wouldn’t really have a reason. I don’t care about anyone I go to school with. What I am surprised by is how many people in Pacific Shores seem to care about Archer’s future.
He’s not the only athlete signing today, but he is the only one the news cameras are here for.
I know that much. He set a state record last year and has been recruited by the top three football programs in the country—not to mention, the confusion surrounding the Golden State hat that will be sitting in front of him on that table today.
Nobody could understand why he’d consider attending a school that hasn’t reached the playoffs in twelve years over the universities who are consistently claiming championship titles and producing first round draft picks.
I’m the reason why, and I’m doing everything I can to ensure he doesn’t place that yellow GSU ball cap on his head today.
Our conversation over video call last night did not go well—much like every other conversation we’ve had over the past three weeks.
“I already made my decision, Allie.”
“You’re going to resent me if you choose to stay. Playing football for TU is your dream!”
“How many times do I have to tell you? You’re my dream!”
“Well, this isn’t my dream for you. We won’t survive this if you stay.”
“We won’t survive if I leave, either.”
And like every other time we have this argument, we end it unsure of where to go next.
On New Year's Eve, Archer and I chose to be together. For real. We talked late into the night about what life would look like when we attended college together. How it would be to live together. Decorating our shared spaces and tangling in the sheets of our shared bed at night. How I’d be able to attend all of his football games and he’d come to my dance competitions should I try out for the university team—I’m still undecided.
We spent the first three days of the year wrapped in pure happiness and each other.
He went back to Pacific Shores, and I went back to Pacific Palisades, but we video called every single night and found time to see each other almost every weekend in January.
We made plans together. Daydreamed about our future, about the domestic bliss we’d soon find ourselves inside once we graduated high school.
Then, he got that call from TU, and all those shared fantasies shattered before we even had the chance to give them shape. He insisted he’d already made up his mind, and I—along with his family—insisted that he pursue this opportunity instead.
Any chance he has of playing in the professional league someday is riding on it.
I haven’t seen him since, but the majority of our nightly conversations have ended in arguments regarding the decision he must make today, and fear for what our future together will now look like.
I promised him that regardless of what he chooses, I’d be there to support him.
There is already a massive crowd gathered inside the gym, with tables lined up from end to end in front of the bleachers.
I spot Willow, her parents, and the rest of Archer’s extended family in the corner at the top, but there are far too many people crowded between myself and where they sit.
The entire place is packed, so I find myself a spot to stand beside the bleacher railing.
Archer sits at the table at the center of the gym—the one with the best view from the stands and for the cameras.
Everett and Archer’s grandmother, Monny, crowd either side of him as he sits at the center of the table.
Dahlia and Lou, who traveled down from Los Angeles, sit with Zander at the table directly beside Archer’s.
He’s signing today too—although he already committed to playing hockey for Golden State next fall.
Archer’s eyes dart around the room nervously as he chews on his thumbnail.
I know he must hate it. Despite always being the center of it, Archer hates attention like this.
He doesn’t play football for status or fame or even the potential of money someday.
He plays because it gives him purpose, because it makes him feel like he’s part of something bigger and more important than himself.
He yearns for success in the sport because it gives him the satisfaction of seeing his hard work pay off, but he doesn’t need an audience to his accomplishments.
It’s something I love so much about him.
Finally, his roving eyes catch mine, and he pauses. He slowly lowers his hand from his mouth as I raise mine to wave at him, and he returns the gesture. I shoot him a smile that I hope he perceives as reassuring from this distance as I toss a thumbs-up.
His lips quirk in the way that sets my soul on fire before he dips his head in a laugh.
Most of the other students at the signing tables seem to be wearing apparel from their college of choice, with a print out of the school’s logo on the table in front of their chair.
Archer appears to be the only one who hasn’t chosen yet, wearing a blue Pacific Shores High hoodie rather than a university one.
A tall, lanky bald man walks into the center of the gym and taps a microphone before quieting the crowd and introducing himself as the athletic director for Pacific Shores.
He then moves throughout the gym, highlighting each athlete and the school they’ve chosen while the crowd cheers as the student makes a short speech before signing.
Archer and I make eye contact several times over the course of the hour he waits his turn. He’s fidgeting—uncomfortable. I can only hope I’m not adding to his discomfort with my presence, but with each glance in my direction, I throw him the grandest grin I can muster.
I need him to see my support, need him to feel it blanketing him from across the room.
I need him to choose his future over ours. I’ll break down about it later, but right now, I need to keep my composure. If he sees me rupture, he’ll choose me. I need him to believe I’ll be just fine without him here.
Need to make myself believe it too.
The athletic director finally reaches Archer, stating he’s the final athlete to sign, and that unlike the others, he still has a decision to make. He goes over the four hats laid out in front of Archer—the final four schools he’s considering—Alabama, Texas, Florida, or right here at home.
The crowd whoops and cheers—many of them begin chanting, “TU… TU… TU…”
The director hushes the crowd before turning to Archer and asking, “Do you have anything you’d like to say?”
His spine goes rigid, and he glances at his mother like he’s asking her for help. She gives him a nurturing smile—the same one she gives me every time I burn something in the bakery kitchen—and an encouraging nod.
Archer hesitates before finally reaching out and taking the mic from the athletic director.
“Umm…” He clears his throat. “I just feel incredibly honored to be considered by all of the universities here. It’s a tough decision to make.
These are phenomenal football programs, and sometimes the thought of leaving Cal—” His voice breaks, eyes flashing to mine as he works down a swallow. “California is unbearable, but…”
My nose stings, and I hope he can’t see the trembling of my lips or hear the cracking of my heart from this distance as I force a smile in his direction, nodding.
He takes a shuddering breath, the sound echoing through the speakers, giving away his emotions as he reaches a shaking hand across the table. I have to bite back a sob when his palm lands on the red Texas University cap.
His gaze meets mine again, and I nod once more, giving him another cheesy, stupid thumbs-up. His shoulders shake with a humorous exhale, but his eyes are cast with sadness when he picks up the hat and says, “I’m very excited about my future at Texas University.”
The entire space explodes with cheers and whistles when he hands the mic back to the director and fastens the red ball cap to his head. I clap, shout his name, make a display of excitement. His eyes dart in my direction one final time before he pulls that folder in front of him and flips it open.
I wait until he signs his name. Until his brother leaps from his own table and tackles Archer while the rest of their family crowds around him. Then, I slip out the door, only the sound of my footsteps crunching against the gravel parking lot masking my heaving sobs.
I stumble to my car, crawling into the driver’s seat before I fold over the steering wheel and let the shattered contents of my demolished heart expel from my lungs in wretched cries.
I’m grateful my windows are tinted when the school begins to clear out, and the rumbling sound of chatter and footsteps surround me as people leave. I don’t look up, burrowing my head in my arms as I crumble completely.
There is a party at the Ramoses this evening to celebrate both Zander and Archer signing, and I’ll still go. I’ll smile and I’ll be happy for him. I’ll promise everyone around us that we’ll be okay—including Archer—but deep down, I don’t know if we can make it through this.
I urged him to make this decision, and I’m happy he chose Texas. It’ll be best for him in the long run—it’s his chance at being a professional football player, and I know that neither of us would forgive ourselves if he chose us over that future.
We’ve promised each other we could do long distance.
That it’s only four more years of it. But the truth is, we’ve never been able to make distance work.
A childhood spent with only a hundred miles between us was too hard to overcome.
I don’t foresee a way that we could ever survive a thousand more.