Bittersweet (26 page)

“Why me specifically? Aren’t we
all
going to the opening game?”

I purse my lips. “Yes, but we
all
know how you get when there are kegs involved.”

Max gets up off the couch and follows me around the breakfast island, pulling the coffee pot out of the machine and filling up two mugs. I swiftly duck back out of the kitchen with a half-smile and pull open her computer where it rests on the coffee table, curious.

“Oh—Cathy, I’m serious, you don’t want to—”

Too late. The screen brightens again and a gossip blog’s salacious headline screams above a picture that makes my stomach lurch. Greg and Bethany, locked in an embrace.

“Honey, you know they took that shot on set, right? I mean, that could even be from the day we went by there. These hacks just like to squeeze a story out of nothing.”

I nod once, shutting the laptop again emphatically, while Max winces. “Sorry,” I mutter. “It’s just… We haven’t spoken. And I already know the producers are pushing for them to have a romance. What if it’s not just for show?” Deep inside I know Greg wouldn’t lie to me like that, especially after what he said to me when we argued, how hurt he’d looked at the very idea. But even deeper inside I know I have trust issues darker than night.

I feel kind of shitty, to say the least, for not having told Greg I believed him when he told me the thing with Bethany the other night was all her, especially knowing what happened back in New York. I guess I’m just mad he even let her get that close. And now, two days later, I’ve only tried calling him once—he didn’t answer so I left a half-hearted apology on his cell. Pride has kept me from trying again, or going by his apartment, or texting… I guess he must have a pride thing going on too, because he’s totally giving me the silent treatment.

“Hey,” Max says to me softly, looking at my expression. “Come here. Forget about all that for right now. Let’s get these eggs going. You don’t want me to try making them by myself, do you?”

I get back up off the couch and give her a weak smile as I start to make us breakfast. “I was stupid,” I mumble. “I shouldn’t have—”

“Uh uh. No. What did I just say? You just need to give him a little space, then you guys will make up. And in the meantime,
you
should just let it all go and cheer on the good ol’ home team. Right? Show me that spirit!” She’s suddenly irritatingly perky, ready to bust into a flashback of her bad-girl cheerleader persona. I pause, mid-egg-beat, and fix her with a withering stare.

“Go, Bloodhounds,” I mutter in just about my most unenthusiastic tone of voice.

“Hell, yeah! There ya go!” she shouts, and we both can’t help laughing.

* * *

“Hold still, damn it,” Maxine says, gripping Hal’s chin as she tries to paint an H next to the B already on his cheek. “I’m going to turn this thing into a ‘J,’ then you’ll be sorry.”

“Well, I thought BJs were your specialty, so…” Hal retorts, and Maxine punches him on the arm as she finishes up. We’re waiting for Todd on the corner of Main Street, about to join the sea of red, black, and white that is streaming toward the high school football field. For such a small town, the opening game of the season is a pretty big deal, to say the least. Considering the crumbling state of the high school itself, the football facilities are practically state-of-the-art. There was an actual event for the unveiling of the new Jumbotron last year.

“Oh, wait, there he is!” Max says excitedly, then yells across the street and gesticulates wildly until Todd spots her. Aside from his tatts, beard, and biker boots, this is the most I’ve ever seen him blend in, as he sports his Bloodhounds jersey proudly along with the rest of us. Max leaps into his arms and he swings her around easily.

“OK, let’s get going,” Hal says, making a face at me as they start to kiss. I scan the crowd looking for Carl and his buddies, but there’s no hope of making him out. I’m sure I’ll see him at the restaurant later—Joe usually hosts a meal for the players, and my little brother is weirdly popular with them despite not being even remotely a jock. Maybe it’s the JJ’s connection—those boys do like a rack of ribs.

We all join in with curse-laden variations on the school fight song with the crowd until we reach the field, and the flow of people slows to a bottleneck as they try and find good seats in the bleachers. Some of those who risked driving are pulling up slowly, trying to find a parking spot without causing an accident, Dogwood Bloodhounds decals affixed to their hoods and doors.

I glance over at one brand-new-looking SUV as it pulls up, and then feel like my eyeballs have been burned. “
Oh, shit
,” I hiss.

Maxi looks over at me, her arm still linked with Todd’s. She unravels herself as she spots what I’ve seen. “Oh.
Oh.
Shit.”

I only realize we’re both still staring when the object of our gaze lifts his hand in a stiff wave, before guiding an older lady and a young, nubile-looking blonde away from the car and toward the entrance to the bleachers.

“Fucking
Jeff
,” I murmur, like I’m in a trance, the half-hearted wave I was giving him still frozen, my palm outstretched but not moving. “I should have known; his mom’s birthday is this weekend. He always comes back for that.”

Max reaches her arm around me and squeezes my shoulder. “Well, we’re just going to ignore him. Right?” She widens her eyes at Hal, who grabs my other shoulder supportively.

“OK, let’s not make it look like I’m having a breakdown or something, guys,” I say, anxious that Jeff’s going to look over here again. Why does he have to look so polished and handsome, while I’m in a baggy Bloodhounds jersey with a shoddily drawn greasepaint star painted on my cheek?

But Max is already loosening her grip as she spots something up ahead. “Are those cameras?” she asks, excitement gripping her voice in spite of her attempts to play it down. As we near the entrance to the bleachers, a tanned guy wearing one of those headset things hands us a Screen/West waiver form.

“We’re filming some crowd shots here today, guys, so just in case you object, you know… Uh, Mayor Castellano has assured us the good people of Dogwood will be happy to comply. Keep it moving, if you have any issues, drop our production manager an email. Keep it moving, people, thank you…”

Maxine grips the piece of paper like it’s a golden ticket as we jostle forward with the throng. “Oh my god—I actually will be in the freaking show. How do I look? Like sort of ‘wow, who’s the redhead, let’s get a close-up of her’? Or should I…”

I drift off, scanning the crowd more intensively now. If they’re shooting, does that mean Greg is here too? Or maybe he’s elsewhere, busy making the camera believe he and Bethany are in love, which will put a serious dampener on my enjoyment of the game. I inadvertently lock eyes with Jeff again, a few rows up in the bleachers from where Max, Hal, Todd, and I manage to find some seats. He smiles broadly, showing his perfect teeth, like it’s not a big deal. Like I’m just an old school friend. Not someone whose heart he stomped all over. He turns back to his new girlfriend, who is also looking at the waiver form and talking animatedly. I immediately imagine her to have a squeaky, annoying little baby voice, even though I can’t hear her from here.

“That’s not ignoring him,” I hear Max say in a low voice, and I pull my eyes away.

I sigh in relief as I see the cheerleading squad head onto the field for the warm-up, so at least I have a distraction—well, them, and Maxine trying to loom into view anytime she thinks the few cameras dotted around the field are trained vaguely in her direction. Soon enough, the players run out onto the field, the crowd roars, and the game begins.

* * *

I’m almost hoarse by half-time, and I decide to stretch my legs, volunteering to go pick up some beers and snacks for everyone. Hal half-heartedly offers to come with me; he’s spent most of the game flirting with a girl that I’m not entirely sure has actually graduated Dogwood High yet, but he’s clearly getting somewhere. It’s sort of a relief to have him distracted, if I’m honest. And Max and Todd are putting on a half-time show of their own, so I figure it’s best to leave them to it.

The line for beer is insane, but at least it’s moving fast. I check my phone, see a group photomessage from Carl of him and all his friends’ butts, each cheek assigned a letter to spell out “GO HOUNDS.” I chuckle and text him back saying I can tell which one is him. But there’s nothing from Greg, much as I check through my list, twice. I take a breath, deciding the line is too long. But I do resolve that I should move out somewhere a little quieter, bite the bullet, and just give Greg a call. Of course, as soon as I turn away, I come face to face with someone tall, familiar, and preppily dressed.

“Cathy!” he says.

“Uh, hi, Jeff. You’re… You’re back.” Great. State the freaking obvious. Nice opener.

“Yeah. For my mother’s birthday, you know. How are you? How’s the restaurant?” He’s so gosh darn chipper, I can hardly stop myself wanting to punch him but I ball my fists up under my armpits, force a nod, and smile.

“Uh, good. You know.”

“Some things just don’t change around here, huh? I bet Joe’s still doing my favorite chicken pot pie. I’ve been dreaming about that sucker—”

“No,” I say, and my teeth clench. “No, actually we dropped that from the menu,” I say pointedly, wondering just how much longer I can attempt to make small talk before I say something really bitter and angry, but then the blonde I saw him with earlier shimmies toward us, and I straighten up and pull a hand through my hair.

“Honey, the line was so long for the bathroom, I’m sorry. That vitamin water just went right through me… Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry. Who’s this?”

I was right. Baby voice.

Jeff slips an arm around the blonde’s waist. “Tilly, this is Cathy, an old friend of mine from Dogwood High. She’s a waitress over at Joe Johnson’s, the place I told you we should stop by later.”

Old friend. Old fucking waitress friend
. “Oh, we’re fully booked up this weekend,” I say smoothly. “I’m doing a little management now too, so I saw the bookings for tonight. Try another time though if you’re in town for a while, uh, Tilly?”

“Oh, I sure will try. I have to tell you, I was so excited when Jeff’s mom said they were shooting this TV show here. Johnny Lincoln is my absolute all-time favorite guy…” She turns and looks up at Jeff, laughing squeakily. “Besides you, of course, baby,” she adds. Jeff taps her on the nose. He used to do that to me. God, was I like this, back then? I suddenly start to feel a weird sense of panic, like I might even just burst out crying right now with all the memories of how much he hurt me welling up. I look away, trying to take a moment and about to excuse myself to go back to my seat, when I see Greg.

Our eyes lock and my heart quickens immediately. He must notice something’s up, because in spite of everything he turns away from the director lady I recognize from the table-read and starts to come over. I blink a few times and suddenly he’s next to me.

“Cathy, hey.” Greg glances down at me, then over at Jeff. He stands a good few inches taller and a good few hundred degrees hotter than my ex in his black T-shirt and dark jeans. I see Tilly’s eyeballs widen appreciatively, then, if possible, stretch even wider as something else seems to dawn on her.

“Oh… Oh my goodness, you’re that guy! That Greg Moran guy, you’re going to be on the show, right? I just saw you, um, you were number one on a Buzzfeed list of the sexiest guys to hit fall TV!” She giggles, and Jeff seems to tighten his arm around her waist. “Sorry, baby,” she says again. Clearly this girl is a fame hound, or pretty oblivious to when she should and shouldn’t comment on other men’s attractiveness. I think I’m starting to like her, actually.

“Uh, yes, sorry,” I say. “Greg, this is, um, Tilly and Jeff.”

Greg’s eyes flicker down toward me for a second before he reaches out a toned arm to shake both of their hands. As he pulls it back, he slips it under my hair to my neck, massaging gently. I feel warmth creep up from the soles of my feet. He leans toward me and lowers his voice, but not enough that the other two can’t hear.

“I only have a five-minute break before we go back to shooting,” he says, his breath brushing the hair next to my ear. “I thought you said you were going to take me under the bleachers…” He presses his lips to my temple then pulls back with a secret-looking smile. I don’t have to fake a blush, and take the risk of slipping an arm around his waist.

“Well, I said I’d get the others some beers first,” I say. “The line’s gone down, so I’d better do that. Nice seeing you guys.” I nod to Jeff and the still-gawking Tilly, and I’m pretty sure I look like the cat who got the cream as Greg and I stride away to the beer concession, his arm around my shoulder, mine around his waist. God, it feels so natural, the way we fit.

“I cannot thank you enough,” I whisper when we’re out of earshot. “That was… I haven’t seen him since… Just, thank you. Really.”

He shrugs. “No problem.” My heart sinks as he pulls his arm from around me.

I swallow. “Greg, I’m so sorry about the other night.”

I wait, but he doesn’t say anything, and we step to the front of the line. I order the beers, wondering what he’s thinking. I balance the plastic cups in the cardboard holder thing the guy gave me, and move off to the side just as I hear the buzzer go for the next quarter.

“I have to go,” he says finally. “They’re doing wide shots of the crowd but they need the back of our heads and our profiles in some of them. It’s… Anyway.” He stops and just looks at me, so I nod. But then he steps closer to me and bites his lip a little. “I like your face paint,” he says in a low voice, with the hint of a twinkle.

How that sentence sounds so seductive to me I don’t know, except that it’s coming from his beautiful mouth, of course. “Thanks,” I manage croakily. “Listen, Greg. Can we talk after the game? Maybe you could come meet me over at JJ’s when you’re done? My dad does a thing for the players and whatnot, but, uh, we could find somewhere a little less—”

“OK,” he says quietly, even though the roar of the crowd has picked up again and the snack stands have all but emptied out. He leans forward and I look up at him, kind of helpless because I’m balancing a tray of cheap beers. I half think, and very much hope, that he’s going to kiss me—but then he lifts one hand, brushes back the hair from my ear, and whispers, “By the way, I’m sorry too.” He smiles a little at me and his fingertips skim down my arm in an electric trail. And then he turns, and then he’s gone. I stare after him for a while before remembering what I’m supposed to be doing.