The very next instant, her resolve is broken. “I’m sorry.” She shuts her eyes, then lets out all her breath. “Ugh, I’m sorry. I went somewhere way dark and … and weird.” Her eyes flap open and she winces. “It’s just been driving me crazy. Tanner and I … we don’t really talk, and haven’t talked much since that whole odd prom night and sudden breakup afterwards. Then my sister Camille had a bizarre, half-platonic thing with his little brother Jimmy several summers ago, and … Ugh, I didn’t realize I brought up prom again, sorry. I just want answers, Lance. My last ten years have been a string of worse and worse men, while Tanner and Billy just grow happier and happier. If I had just known back then about him …”
I take her free hand suddenly. It’s impulsive and I don’t even realize I’m doing it until our hands are already clasped. “Lindsay, I get it. And after ten long years, we’re all reunited here, and there will be a lot of unresolved baggage dug up and opened tonight. I’m certain you’re not the only one with … questions. And pains that have haunted you for a decade. Frustrations you’ve never had the nerve to let go of, or exorcise, or therapy away. We all do. And it’s time—this is the time—that we finally acknowledge them, instead of hiding from them behind a curtain at some department store.”
I blink, not having intended to let that last part out.
I guess I’m talking about myself here.
And that guy in the crowd of tables behind me.
And maybe also someone else I might have pissed off in that same clothing store earlier today.
Maybe I should consider my own unresolved messes.
Lindsay lifts an eyebrow. “A curtain? That’s awfully specific.”
“I’ve had a day,” I mutter miserably, and the two of us leave it at that, no further explanation provided.
Lindsay gets pulled away into a conversation with some old cheerleading friends of hers, and I’m left at the long table, now staring at a giant photo of young Tanner in his football gear, all his buddies crowding around him with a trophy pumped into the air, grasped by what appears to be Kirk’s gloved fist. It appears they just won some big championship game.
This may sound insane.
Perhaps a hair out of character.
But sometimes, I actually wish I was part of that crowd.
I wonder what my life might’ve been like, had I succumbed to my father’s pressure of “being more of a man”, or “taking up a sport”, or “getting muddy now and then”. What if I’d had a brother who’d push me around and make me play catch with him, instead of being an only child? What if just one of those athletes in this proud, happy picture chose to reach out and get to know me back then? What if I did have some secret, locker room love affair with Tanner? Now that I know he’s gay, it’s a strange thought to juggle around in my head—that such a seemingly ridiculous fantasy with Spruce’s big football star might actually have been possible.
I wonder what a different Lance Goodwin would have experienced.
“Nothin’ much to see in this photo here,” comes a voice at my side, “except a bunch of dumb jocks in football pads.”
My spine stiffens. Chills race right up my neck.
I gather my wits and put on a show of acting casual—almost bored, in fact. “That’s awfully impolite of you. Calling the Spruce Juice and his pals ‘a bunch of dumb jocks’.”
Chad snorts, amused. “Well, I just call ‘em how I see ‘em.”
With him now standing at my side, I smell a faint hint of his spicy cologne. I practically see the two cartoon fingers of smoke hooking my nostrils, tempting me with their masculine aroma.
Normally, that scent turns my stomach.
Why do I find his so intoxicating?
“Lance …” he starts to say.
Naturally, I cut him off with my usual snark. “So where’s the photo of the big, bad wrestling team?”
Chad chuckles. “Oh, we didn’t win nothin’. I think we might have been the worst wrestling team on this side of Texas.”
I feel his gaze on the side of my face, soft and curious.
I’m not looking at him. I’m still staring straight ahead at a big, obnoxious trophy in a sea of football helmets and giant shoulder pads. I’m staring at its luster, the bright sun (or stadium lights; I can’t tell) glaring off of it.
“Lance, we gotta talk.”
I lift my chin. “So talk.”
“But …” He growls, sounding quite vexed. “Why you bein’ so damned difficult, Lance?”
I close my eyes.
Have you ever tried to control your own pulse and make your heart stop thrashing so rapidly against your chest?
For the record, it doesn’t work.
He leans closer to me and brings his voice down. “I’m guessin’ my message got to you, loud and clear.”