Chapter 4 Maggie
MAGGIE
Just as Etta Jo starts to offer me the words of encouragement—that I’ll likely protest but probably need to hear—her roommate, Giselle, breezes in. “Ooh, frosting and chips,” she says as if that’s not a strange and surprising combination.
“Help yourself,” Etta Jo says, the picture of hospitality.
“The craziest thing happened today.” She goes on to tell us an outrageous story about meeting a football player from the Miami Riptide who’d taken her to dinner on his yacht.
“Maggie, don’t you know a football player?” Etta Jo asks.
Giselle leans in. “Ooh. Which team?”
My hand reflexively presses against the heart charm around my wrist—it used to be a necklace, but the chain broke, so now it’s on a string.
Declan gave it to me when we graduated and told me to follow my heart.
He’d also said, “No matter where we go, no matter what we do, I promise that I’ll always be there for you. ”
“Come on, dish up the juicy deets, Maggie.”
“He plays wide receiver for the Boston Bruisers.”
Giselle waggles her eyebrows suggestively. Etta Jo leans in as if I’d ever kiss and tell. Not that Declan and I have.
“We. Want. Details,” Giselle says.
“Starting with his name and vital statistics,” Etta Jo says.
“Especially the scandalous ones. Come to think of it, we hardly ever talk about your dating life.”
That’s because it’s as mythical as unicorns and as nonexistent as dinosaurs. And I’d rather forget about the guy I most recently fell for—emphasis on fall, but not into a fountain. More like I stumbled over my better judgment.
As if reading my mind, Etta Jo taps the air. “Oh, wait, there was Sly the Single Guy.”
“A mistake of which we shall never speak.”
“The takeaway is always searching guys’ names online before you go on a date.” That’s Etta Jo for you, always looking for the upside.
I huff out an exhale, still resenting my ex. “Sylvester Zeman should’ve come with a warning label.”
“At least he didn’t post about it on his YouTube channel.”
“No, because while he capitalized on living large as a bachelor, he had a secret and thriving dating life, and that would’ve been bad for the brand.” I do not hide the disdain in my voice.
“I’m sorry you were one of his victims.” Giselle taps my hand. “I heard some other women started the hashtags #Don’tBuySlysLies and #ByebyeSly.”
It’s almost enough to make me laugh, but I’m not quite there yet.
While I thought I had to pander to get a guy to like me, that doesn’t mean I ought to give him the keys to the kingdom, er, my van.
By the time Sly was done with me, I was at risk of having to panhandle.
The guy cleaned me out, taking my cake-loving dreams with him. Literally.
“We don’t care about that loser. Tell us about the football player.” Etta Jo’s southern accent is so encouraging, if I knew nuclear codes, I’d be at risk of revealing them.
“Not much to say.” That’s the truth.
She eyes my fingers, which clasp the charm around my wrist. She bumps me with her shoulder.
“Oh, come on. Tell us about the wide receiver for the Bruisers. I need to live vicariously through you girls. The last football player I spoke to was Augie Roberts, who was the star QB for Neil Marsh Regional High School in Willoworth County, Georgia. I’ll never forget the last thing he ever said to me.
” She lowers her voice a few octaves. “‘Etta Jo, I know you and I would make beautiful babies as Mr. and Mrs. Roberts, but Mama always said my hair is going to take me places and I’d like to see where before I settle down.’ And there I thought it was his athletic skills. ” She lets out a fluttery little sigh.
We giggle.
“So, when did you meet this football stud? How’d you meet?”
“Declan? Who said anything about him being a stud?” I ask.
“He’s on the Bruisers, of course, he’s a stud—in a rugged, manly kind of way,” Etta Jo says matter-of-factly.
The team has a reputation, but I don’t think of Declan like that.
“He does have some tattoos.” Giselle looks at an image on her phone.
“Are you into tattoos?” Etta Jo shimmies.
Giselle raises her hand. “I am.”
It’s easy enough to read between the lines and see where they’re going with this.
“If you’re asking if I’m into Declan, the answer is no.
We’re friends. Just friends. It’s always been very clear where Declan and I stand: squarely in the friend zone.
Forever. Always. End of story.” And if my smile says anything, it’s that I’m grateful for his friendship.
“Declan,” Etta Jo echoes. “I like that name. Sounds like it would belong to a strapping lad.”
Giselle and I both laugh at her southern-accented attempt at an Irish accent.
“He’s originally from Ireland, but we met in high school. We were both new to the private academy. We clicked.”
“You clicked?” Giselle says, as if sensing there’s more to the story.
“We were both kind of oddballs, I guess.”
Etta Jo and Giselle both pitch forward slightly and exchange a glance as if they’re asking each other who’s going to handle this?
In a deliberately slow version of her peppy southern accent, Etta Jo asks, “Can you define oddball because, see, I’m from outside Savannah and you’re from, well, I’m not sure where you were born and raised, Maggie.
Bookmark that because it feels like something I should know about you.
But back to the point, where I come from, an oddball is someone unusual, eccentric, quirky—”
“And ugly,” Giselle adds. “And you, Maggie, are not ugly.”
“Neither is Declan.” Etta Jo wears a smirk as she peers over Giselle’s shoulder while she scrolls what are likely photos of Declan Printz. “Nope. Quite the opposite, in fact.”
“You’d make a good couple,” Giselle says.
I roll my eyes. They aren’t the first people to pine over the football player. Not that I have, but I’ll give them a little more to the story to establish that he and I are only friends. Then the girls and I can move on.
“Forget last words, I’ll never forget Declan’s first words to me.” I lower my voice and try to imitate his slight Irish accent. “He said, ‘How did a California girl end up in dreary Boston?’ I wondered how he knew I was from California.”
“You’re from California?” Etta Jo asks with bruised surprise in her voice.
Oops. Shouldn’t have mentioned that. “Yep. I was born there. Anyway, he said it was a hunch.”
“The blonde hair and the sunny smile are giveaways,” Giselle adds.
Then he went on to say that I didn’t answer his question. My response? He was right. I said, “We shall never speak of it.” And made no further comment. But I had a question of my own. I asked, “How’d a tough-looking guy from Ireland end up in Boston?” He answered, “We shall never speak of it.”
Declan and I became instant friends and inseparable, but we recognized that we were both grappling with the past and knew better than to trauma dump on each other in order to bond. It was a laugh riot from the start, if only to chase away the blues.
Giselle scoots next to Etta Jo, and they both ogle over more images of my best friend, commenting on how good he looks in his uniform...and out of it. Some athletes do amazing things and even end up in the Hall of Fame, yet their names are largely unrecognized except among super fans.
Then there’s Declan Printz, who parades around like the cock of the walk.
I sometimes wonder if we had just met now if we’d become good friends.
But I know him and want to believe deep inside still exists the brown-eyed boy who made it his job to see to it I laughed at least once a day and who loved football more than fame.
I hang on tightly to my friendship with Declan, even though now we only text, which makes it feel like it’s slipping out of my hands because it’s the last real, good thing I had before I stumbled over mishap after mistake. I’m afraid that if I talk much about it, I’ll lose him too.
“Why didn’t we know that you’re good friends with this guy?” Etta Jo asks.
“It’s not a big deal.”
“He’s obviously a big deal. A very big deal.” Etta Jo stares at the heart charm around my wrist as if she knows it’s from him.
“At the very least, we should’ve gone to his game the last time he played Miami,” Giselle says.
“You have your own football star,” Etta Jo replies as if she called dibs on Declan.
If he’d had his way, I’d have been at every game. He’d have paid my travel expenses, too, but a gal has to learn how to make it on her own. I don’t accept handouts. I learned early on that the hand that feeds can also bite.
“Why aren’t there any pictures of you on his arm at an event?” Etta Jo asks.
“If you haven’t noticed, I’m not a Giselle lookalike.”
“Maybe Declan isn’t into women that look like me,” she says demurely.
“Have you looked in the mirror lately?” I ask.
“Have you?” she replies.
I grumble. “No, but if I go on social media, I’m sure to see a drowned rat.”
Etta Jo places her hand delicately on my arm. “My mama always says that someone else’s beauty doesn’t dim your own, and you’re beautiful, Maggie.”
“In a girl-next-door kind of way,” I mutter. This fact has been drilled into my mind since the end of my run playing Honey Holiday on Friends of the Family. I was cute, but as I matured, I didn’t remain star-quality material, despite my parents’ attempt to keep me in the spotlight.
“Thanks, ladies. I guess I’m just feeling low,” I say, not wanting to be a downer.
Etta Jo scooches closer to me. “Why don’t you tell us all about Declan Printz?”
“Dish the details. When was the last time you saw him? What did you do? And most importantly, what does he smell like?” Giselle smirks.
I toss a decorative pillow shaped like a taco at her.
“Come on. Spill.”