I poke my head in to see what’s happening and find Coach Woods sitting there with Dad and five other people.
“Hi,” I say. “What’s going on?”
“Jordan and Sam dropped by for a tasting,” Dad says, beaming. When I told him Coach Woods was interested in having him plan her wedding, he went nuts. Not only does he love having the business, her dad was a famous quarterback for the Tennessee Titans, Dad’s favorite football team. I’m not sure how much Mr. Woods cares about design elements and feng shui, but Dad sure is happy to tell him all about it.
Dad introduces Coach Woods’ parents, her fiancé, Sam, and his mom and dad. Their parents start asking me tons of questions about swimming—they seem really into sports. Meanwhile, Coach Woods and Sam are hovering over a platter of Chef’s chocolate truffles, popping them in their mouths like M&M’s and groaning about how good they are.
Mr. Woods throws his head back and stares at the ceiling. “Do either of you ever stop eating?”
“Dad, these truffles are so good!” Coach Woods exclaims.
“Jordan, we have to get a truffle display,” her fiancé says.
“Can we try some?” Mrs. Woods asks, but by that point, her daughter and future son-in-law have eaten them all.
Coach Woods turns to Dad, still chewing her final chocolate. “Can the truffles be shaped like footballs?”
“Of course.” Dad makes a note on his iPad, and the parents start shaking their heads, exasperated.
“How about we talk color themes?” Mrs. Woods asks. “And let’s look beyond the Titans colors.”
“But I had my heart set on the groomsmen wearing football uniforms,” Coach Woods jokes.
“And the bridesmaids will be in cheerleading skirts,” Sam replies.
Coach Woods punches his shoulder, which makes him laugh and kiss her.
“Let’s compromise,” Sam says to his fiancé. “You can wear the cheerleading outfit on our honeymoon.”
The parents roll their eyes.
I leave them to their planning and go back to Mom’s office. She’s busy playing with one of her Pinterest boards online. She posts a picture of the baby shower she catered a couple weeks ago, specifically the yellow place mats and the individual tiny white flower arrangements at each place setting.
I sit down across from her.
“Hey, Tadpole.” The sweatshirt I’m wearing with Levi’s name on it catches her attention. “Is that Levi’s?”
I feel myself blushing. “He gave it to me for my birthday.”
“You guys made up?”
“Not specifically,” I say. “But we’re back to normal.”
Mom clicks the mouse on her laptop. “That’s how it is with good friends. Actually, that’s how it is between your dad and me.”
“Really?”
“You know we argue all the time,” Mom says with a fond smile.
“Yeah, but it’s about little stuff. Like what to name your aioli sauce.”
“I think we get along so well because we fight about the things that bother us, rather than stewing about them.”
“Levi and I had a big fight,” I say. “We’d never really had a little one.”
Mom turns away from her laptop to concentrate on me. “The good news is that you’ve made it through a bad fight. Your friendship is solid, and if you have another one—though I hope you don’t—you both will be okay.”
“I hope so too.”
“But why are you wearing his sweatshirt? That seems like an awfully couple-y gift.”
I blush. “I’ve wanted this for years. He probably got sick of me trying to steal it.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Like I said, it seems very couple-y. It reminds me of how your dad gave me his college ring.”
“It’s just a sweatshirt.”
She smiles knowingly. “Whatever you say, Tadpole.”
After mooching dinner from the sample Americana food Dad is proposing for the Woods-Henry wedding, I walk down the street to my house. It’s finally that time of year when the sun doesn’t go down before I get home. As I walk, I stare at the pink and purple cotton candy sunset, and bring Levi’s sweatshirt to my nose. It still smells like him. At some point I will have to wash it, but I’m not ready to yet.
Later that night, Levi texts me when I’m already in bed. It’s only eight o’clock, but I’m exhausted from lifting weights today. Coach Josh is so evil I often discover muscles I didn’t know I had. Like, why is my left inner thigh on fire?
Levi’s message reads: Can you come over? Need to show you something.
I climb out of bed, wincing at my sore hamstrings. A month ago I would’ve fixed my hair, put on cute underwear and a lacy bra, and slathered lotion on my body. Maybe I would’ve even worn a little lip gloss. Tonight I pull on his sweatshirt and ripped jeans over my cotton underwear and sports bra.
When I get to his place, I expect to find him out front waiting on me, but he’s not there. His mom is on the front porch, though, drinking a glass of red wine while flipping through a file folder. Country music softly pours out of a speaker. Pepper is lying on the stoop secured to her leash. I’m surprised the dog’s not with Levi, wherever he is.
“Maggie, hi,” Ms. Lucassen says, setting down her glass and standing to give me a hug. “Levi’s out back by the lake,” she says. Pepper lumbers to her feet and barks and wags her tail, itching to tag along with me.
“No, baby,” Ms. Lucassen tells the dog. “You have to stay with me tonight.”
Okay, that’s weird.
I edge around the side of the house and make my way across the green grass toward the water. I try not to think about the first time we kissed out here. If I had a time machine, I would go back to warn myself not to start something that wouldn’t end well. Our kisses—our hookups—they felt like winning races, but they weren’t worth almost losing my best friend.
They weren’t worth my heart feeling this broken.
I find Levi down by the lake. He’s wearing a ball cap turned backward, a gray, long-sleeved tee, athletic shorts, and sneakers. It’s warm enough he doesn’t need the tights anymore.
“Mags,” he calls. “Watch where you step.”
Huh?
He points at the sand, where I see tiny shadows shuffling in the moonlight.
Turtles!
“Martha’s babies!” I squeal.
They emerge covered with sand, poking up their little heads. They are so tiny! Like the size of a sand dollar. They make their way down to the water, crawling over pebbles.
We watch as they continue to emerge one by one from the sand, entering the great big unknown that will either carry you or let you sink, unless you learn to swim and master it.
“Thanks for inviting me to come watch,” I say, and we settle into a nice silence with the brand new turtles. It’s funny to imagine one of these little guys becoming a resident terror turtle like Martha one day.
“Maggie,” he says quietly, turning toward me. “Can we talk?”
“Of course.”
He takes off his cap and drags a hand through his hair. “I realized something in Atlanta.”
“Yeah?”