"Don't mention it." My mother turns her attention back to me. "Now, you."
"I'm sitting here enjoying my beer, ma," I say, holding up my cup. "And then I'm going to enjoy another one."
"I read that thesis, the one sitting in your lap," she says. "All of it. There's not one thing in there for you to get all butt-hurt about, so either you're just as pigheaded as you were when you were three and refused to wear clothes outside the house, or you're in love with her and terrified so you're picking a fight so you can screw up the entire thing. Either way, find your balls and go fix things with that girl."
"Damn it, mom," I groan. "You have no idea what you're talking about."
"I know exactly what I'm talking about. You know who was stubborn just like you? Your father."
"Yeah, well you never lied to dad and pretended to be something you weren't," I say bitterly.
"That girl didn't pretend to not know you just so she could get with some football star," my mother says. "If that's not obvious as daylight to you, then I don't know what to do with you."
I cross my arms over my chest, the papers piled every which way underneath. "Then I guess you don't know what to do with me."
"You know what's sad?" my mother asks.
I grunt a response, looking behind her at the people walking around the lawn. She doesn't know what she's talking about. She has no idea about what's between me and Cassie.
"What's sad is that you're going to have everything," she says. "I've known that since you were ten years old. Your father knew it too. You've always been great at football. It was written all over you the day you picked up a ball. But you're going to get everything you want and then realize it's really damn lonely at the top."
I sit there in silence, her words ringing in my head.
It's lonely at the top.
I don't have a response for her.
She doesn't wait for one. She kisses the top of my head. "I'm going to get out of here. I've seen more breasts at this party in the past fifteen minutes than I care to for one evening. I hope you figure things out, because I love you, Colt."
"I know, ma," I say. "I love you, too."
It takes me twenty minutes and another beer before I look at the thesis.
40
Cassie
"Smoking hot," Sable says, evaluating my outfit. I just spent an ungodly amount of time putting on eyeliner, which I never wear, and fussing over hiding the dark circles under my eyes that are a result of last night's tequila binge. "He's not going to be able to resist an apology in that outfit."
"Well, I don't want him to forgive me just because he wants to bang me." I look in the mirror, noting the fitted jeans, sandals, and a black tank top of Sable's that she insisted on loaning me. "I should rethink the shirt."
"You will not rethink that shirt! Because there's nothing to rethink about it. Displaying your boobs during an apology should practically be mandatory. Actually, that's probably a good negotiation tactic in general."
"You should be a diplomat," I deadpan. "And in no way would you set women back a hundred years with those kinds of tactics."
"Use what you got is what I say."
"How are you in a graduate program in sociology again?"
"Seemed like a good idea at the time," Sable says. "The parental units hated it. Especially my mother."
"Always a great reason to get a Ph.D."
"So let's go," Sable says.
"I don't need an escort," I say firmly. "I should really do it on my own."
"I want to see Jonathan. And because, well, you know there will be a party. So just in case you need moral support…"
"You don't think Colton is going to be hooking up with someone?" The thought hadn't even crossed my mind when I decided I was going to "woman up", as Colton's mother put it, and fix things.
The thought makes me really want to vomit.
"Nooo," Sable assures me. Except it's one of those falsely bright no's, the kind you say when your best friend asks you if the designer magenta tube top she paid five hundred dollars for was too expensive.
"You do think that," I say. "I don't know if I can handle seeing that, Sable."
"I don't think that, not really."
"You totally do."
"I just want you to be prepared… in that eventuality," she amends. "He's a jock who has women throwing themselves at him all the time. And he's pretty pissed at you."
"Well, I'd rather know," I say firmly. "If he's hooking up with some girl after a tiny fight, then I know he's a dick before things go any further."
"Then we go to the house," Sable says.
"We go to the house."
I have one more panicked moment when we pull up to the house, but I resolve to not let it get the best of me. I'm going to see him and say my piece and explain. And if he's stuck on it, then I'm going to walk away.
I take a deep breath.
The party is pretty much just like the one I walked in on the first time I met Colton, except this version is more crowded and louder, if that's possible.
"I don't know where we're going to find him in this mess," I yell.