“RORY, come help me with the salad,” Mom called.
I left the living room where I’d been sitting with Dad and Aiden, the three of us uncomfortable for totally different reasons. Them because they were about to have the man who’d negotiated Terry Tahone’s deal with the Brentwood Badgers and given our local team an actual chance at the Superbowl in our house. Me because Beckett was in my house to get my parents’ approval.
Mom had her red gingham apron on over a sharp black dress. That along with the display of healthy dishes on the island made her the picture of healthy domestication, a reminder of everything I was not.
“What do you need?” I asked. “Looks like you’re already done.”
“I am.” Her hands went behind her back to untie the apron. “I just wanted to talk.”
My feet were way ahead of me, taking a step back toward the living room and my dad’s unassuming presence. Which, now that I thought of it, was strange since he was a lawyer and my mom was a health teacher.
“Honey,” she chuckled. “You’re not in trouble. I just haven’t been able to catch you all week. Between parent-teacher conferences and Aiden’s race and you hanging out with your friends…I want to hear about your life.”
She leaned against the island, waiting.
I sighed and followed suit opposite her. “What do you want to talk about?”
“Beckett Langley, of course. What happened to bring that boy and his father to our house?”
“We so don’t have time to go into that,” I said before I could guard my words.
“What do you mean? It’s complicated?”
As in, my appearance at homecoming depends on him having mutual feelings? Yes, but I left it at, “We don’t exactly run in the same circles.”
“I’ll say,” she said. “But then again, I’m not sure what circle you do run in. I never see you at lunch anymore, and when I did, you sat by yourself with your books.”
Suddenly the feeling of living in a fishbowl was stronger than ever. “I told you, I eat with the girls in the AV room so Ginger can stay on top of her extra work for the AV club.”
“You did.” She sighed and looked out the window over the sink into the darkening sky outside. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
I stood up from the counter, folding my arms across my chest. “What does that mean?”
“I just…” She raised her hands and put them on the granite. “Beckett seems like a decent kid, but high schoolers aren’t always the nicest people. Trust me, I teach them every day.”
My mouth fell open. Was I hearing my own mother right? “So you think it’s a pity date?”
“Of course not.”
“Then he’s playing a prank on me?” The truth behind her words hit me. “You think he’s out of my league.” My chest ached. I knew it; I just didn’t expect my own mother to agree.
I left the kitchen, ready to text Beckett and tell him to forget it. That I could do whatever he and his dad wanted instead of sitting in on this dinner with my mom, who clearly thought I didn’t deserve a guy like Beckett.
Just as I’d reached my purse by the door, retrieved my phone, and opened my Sermo app, the doorbell rang.
Dad and Aiden sprang from the couch and surrounded me at the door. “Answer it,” Dad whispered.
“Yeah.” Aiden pushed me slightly forward. “Answer it.” I glanced at them over my shoulder. “Cowards.”
But I wasn’t much braver. With shaking hands, I opened the door, and there stood Beck, looking more amazing than I’d ever seen him before. I took him in—all of him—with his slacks that hugged him in all the right places, his navy suit jacket framing broad shoulders, and the dark green of
his shirt, bringing out the depths of his hazel eyes. A smile fell onto my lips like it was just waiting for the missing piece that was Beckett Langley.
I barely even noticed the man beside him, who was just as built at Beck, but older, with a crooked nose that looked like it had been broken.
Dad cleared his throat. “Hi there.”
I jerked, straightening my back. “Come in.” That was the right thing to say…right?
With an amicable smile, Beckett’s dad started inside. Aiden offered to take his coat, then did the same for Beckett, almost as an afterthought.
Beckett’s eyes stayed on me, roving me like I had him. His stare trailed a path from my loose braid to the easy wrap of my jersey dress over my chest and hips. I’d felt self-conscious before, but now I felt…warm. My ears were so hot they had to be red. It was a good thing they were covered by my hair.
As Aiden, my dad, and Mr. Langley walked toward the dining room, falling into an easy conversation about football, Beckett stepped closer to me. We were alone now in the foyer.
He reached out, his fingers skimming along my braid. “This is pretty.” They brushed over my shoulder, and my nerves danced under his touch,
brought alive by the simple contact. It took all I had not to shiver. Instead, I tilted my head. “You dressed up.”
“Had to make sure I’d get the parents’ approval.”
His words heated my stomach just as his eyes had warmed my cheeks. “This is important to you?”
“Of course,” he said. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
I smiled and took one of his hands in mine. Fortune favors the bold.
He gripped my hand back and walked with me toward the dining room. When we reached our audience, we parted ways, sitting across the table from each other.
It was too far, until his foot gently nudged my own. The butterflies danced happily, and I tried not to be too obvious about it. Especially under the prying eyes of my parents. His dad seemed comfortable, sitting with his son and a girl’s parents, but my mom and dad were like hawks, their eyes tracking every move Beckett and I made.
“So, Beckett,” my mom said. “Have you applied to any colleges?”
Beckett opened his mouth to answer, but Mr. Langley chuckled. “More like they’ve applied to him. He has UCLA, Duke, LSU, OU, and KSU on
our voicemail almost every day, checking in to see if he’s made his decision yet.”
Mom beamed at him. “You must be proud.”
Mr. Langley smiled at his plate, cutting his ham. “Hard not to be. My head might not fit in our house once he becomes a second gen Heisman winner.”
Beckett met my eyes, and I instantly recognized the struggle I saw there. His dad had said “once” he wins it. Not “if.” The weight of that expectation didn’t escape me.
Mr. Langley looked at me. “What about you, Rory? I’m assuming movie star isn’t your biggest aspiration.”
I caught the dig at Merritt, but it didn’t please me. What made him assume I wouldn’t have a future in acting? There were plenty of curvy women to aspire to—Rebel Wilson, Queen Latifa, Melissa McCarthy—they were inspiring and comedic and wonderful as any skinny actress.
“Rory wants to be an art teacher,” Dad said. “She’s a brilliant painter.”
Mr. Langley raised his eyebrows. “Good to have a fallback plan, if the art fails.”
Something deep within me bristled. Teaching wasn’t a “fallback plan” for me. It was a career where I could work with students—people just like me—and make a real difference for them. Be the support my mom hadn’t been to me, regardless of their size, shape, or color. I could help them embrace the outlet creating had been for me.
I was about to speak, but Beckett beat me to it.
“She’s an amazing artist. She doesn’t need a fallback.”
Dad subtly raised his glass to Beckett as Mr. Langley backtracked. “There’s nothing wrong with art, but a teacher’s salary…it’s tough without supplementing. You’re a brave young woman.”
Being a teacher like my mom didn’t seem brave, but maybe it was to someone like Mr. Langley, who expected teenagers to follow the path laid out for them.
“And you,” Mr. Langley said to Aiden. “I hear you’re quite the runner.
Any plans for collegiate athletics?”
Aiden straightened in his chair. “Yes, sir. If they’ll take me.”
Mr. Langley winked at him. “I might have a few connections for you.” “Thank you,” Aiden said, stars practically shining in his eyes. “That
would be great.”
Dad nodded. “I’m sure they’ll be watching him at the state meet.”
Mr. Langley drowned his red wine down his muscled throat. “Of course.”
As the conversation dissolved into small talk around football, I pushed my salad around my plate. I wished Beckett and I could have a second to ourselves. It was so much easier to be around him without the oppressive weight of our parents.
His foot nudged mine again, demanding my attention, and I looked up into his sparkling eyes. Barely hiding a smile, I pressed the toe of my sandal against his shoe.
“You know,” Mr. Langley said to my dad, “I may need some of your services for my clients in the future. Do you have some time to talk confidentially?”
Dad’s shoulders straightened, all business now. “Join me in my office?”
They excused themselves from the table, and Mom said, “Aiden, help me with the dishes. Rory, you should show Beckett your studio.”
“I’d love that,” Beckett said quickly.
I threw a glare at Mom so Beckett couldn’t see. Really? My studio was private. I’d shown Beckett the painting of us, but that had been a single piece. Showing him all of my work was like baring a part of myself to him that hardly anyone knew.
Mom painted a smile on her lips. “You two go up; we’ll take care of the cleanup.”
Right in front of my mom and my brother, Beckett took my hand and stepped so he was inches from me. “I’d like to see it.”
How could I say no with him overwhelming my senses in every single way?
“Let’s go,” I breathed.
We walked toward the stairs, and I started up first, acutely aware of the view Beckett had from behind me. I tried not to be too self-conscious, but I still kept my gaze forward as I walked past my room toward the studio.
Beckett’s footsteps went silent behind me, and I turned to see him stalled by my bedroom, looking at the pictures on the door.
I had it decorated with my name and a long strip of pink fabric that had clothespins holding photos.
His fingers brushed the corners of one I’d taken with Anna.
“I read chapter books with her,” I said. “To help with her dyslexia.”
He glanced up from the photo. “I know.”
My eyebrows came together. “What do you mean?” “I had Anna for Christmas Pairs last year.”
Every year, a high school student paired with a grade schooler and spent the day with them, reading, playing games in the gym, and watching a movie with the rest of the school.
“That’s right,” I said. I’d almost forgotten he’d been partnered with her. His lips turned up at the corners. “What do you mean ‘that’s right’?” Busted. “Um.” My cheeks reddened as I stared at the floor. “I meant,
that’s right, we-uh-have partners.”
His finger brushed under my chin, turning my gaze toward him. “You’re a terrible liar.”
I laughed. “Well, it’s not fair. You were way too adorable with her.”
“Yeah, except for when she wouldn’t stop talking about how her tutor makes the cute voices and acts out the story! I couldn’t compete with that.”
My smile grew wider with each word.
He brushed my forearm and trailed his fingers to link with mine before turning back to the pictures. There was one of me and Aiden together, before a cross-country meet, before I’d started wearing makeup and dressing in clothes that actually fit me.
“This is a pretty one of you,” he said.
My eyes nearly bugged out of my head. “Are we looking at the same picture?”
“What are you trying to say?” he asked. His fingers left the photo, and he tugged me closer. When he was just inches away, the heat from his body radiating toward me, it was impossible to think.
I pressed my lips together, wanting nothing more than him to still my words with his kiss. But he was waiting, watching. “I—that’s not a good picture of me,” I finished lamely.
He brushed back a strand of hair that had escaped my braid, the tips of his fingers trailing over my cheek and leaving a path of sparks. “I disagree.”
He was tall enough I had to look up at him, and man, I could have taken in this sight all day. “Easy for you to say. You don’t have a bad angle.”
He smiled and feathered his lips over my cheek. “Neither do you.” He laced his fingers through mine. “Now, show me your studio.”
“Okay,” I said softly and led him farther down the hall, my hand in his. I did my best to breathe and pretend that I had myself together, but the
butterflies tickling my insides didn’t help the breathing problem.
As we neared the door to my studio, the splash of soft watercolors on a stretched canvas came into view. It hung from an ornamental hook on the door with the words “Rory’s Studio” written in black script.
“We’re here,” I said, nerves rampant now that he was about to see a part of me I rarely shared with anyone other than my family. I swallowed and gave him a side glance.
Beckett’s eyes were alight, like we were about to discover gold. If only the idea of him seeing my work didn’t make me feel like I was standing in front of a classroom buck naked.
I stepped through the door and flipped on the switch, illuminating easels of artwork, shelves of paint, and long, gauzy curtains. I tried to imagine what it looked like through the eyes of someone who hadn’t spent hours in here.
Would they notice the drips of paint that had escaped my canvases and landed on the easels? What about the carefully organized baskets of every kind of paint from acrylics to oils? Or the showpieces I hung on the walls, a blend of pastels and neon colors?
He approached one, the latest painting to earn a space on the wall, and took it in.
Anxiously, I stood beside him, wishing I could hear all the thoughts whirring behind his hazel eyes. Instead, I had to watch as his gaze traced the plane of the canvas, the strokes I’d painted of each of my friends at the AV table. Even though our friendship might not last past homecoming, I wanted the memory of belonging to last forever.
“This is amazing,” Beckett finally said, awe clear in his voice.
My heart twisted and clenched, clinging to each word. Maybe I wasn’t classically pretty or my mom’s ideal daughter, but maybe my art made up for it—helped me shine. “Do you really think so?”
He nodded. “I’ve never looked at something and felt it before, you know? But this…it feels like happiness.”
I smiled. “It is.” And I’d be forever grateful to the girls because they’d given me this, a moment, a chance with Beckett. I hoped with every piece of my heart it would last.
