“How about you come to the game and cheer us on?”
An invitation to watch him play? That also seems a tiny bit flirty, but again, is probably just my buzz. “Not sure that I can. You see, someone gave me loads of grief about not having taken my ACTs, so now I’m tied up with test prep. Couldn’t fit being a cheerleader into my cram-packed schedule of trying to choose the best answer.”
The whole family has gotten into the act of readying me for the ACTs. After dinner, we sit at the table with Mum’s laptop and Dad and I compete against each other for the correct answer.
Let me just say this—it’s a blessing my father’s already found his professional calling, even if he’s not worked much lately. Dad argues every answer he biffs, too, so we’re not plowing through the prep as quickly as we should. But he’s having a fine time and I feel like I’m learning when I hear his rationale, so I see no reason to stop.
Of course, when he does manage to get an answer right? He showboats like an NFL quarterback scoring the winning Super Bowl touchdown. (Yes, Dad’s rediscovered American football—LOVES IT. Calls it “the real football,” having completely abandoned his longtime obsession with footy and Liverpool FC.) Even Warhol gets into the act during our quizzes, barking and tearing around the table.
Liam nudges me with his shoulder. “If you change your mind, let me know.”
I take a sip of my beer so he doesn’t see me blush. Stupid half-English skin, broadcasting my every emotion. I ask him, “Will you miss it? Soccer? When the season’s over, will you still play for fun?”
He darkens. “This year? Nothing about soccer is fun.”
“Why’s that?”
“The team’s largely seniors, so it’s doubly important that we win because for most of us, that’s it. Not many are playing in college, by choice. We want to go out on top. Like, I don’t even know what would happen if we don’t bring home the W.”
“Bring home the W?”
“The win,” he says. “Like on the flags for the Cubs’ wins.”
Something clicks inside my brain. “Ohhh, the W stands for the win; that explains a lot. So much, in fact,” I say.
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“Promise me you won’t laugh?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I promise you I will laugh, but tell me anyway.”
I explain, “Well, ever since we got here, we’ve spotted all the W flags hanging from people’s flagpoles and letter-boxes.”
“Mailboxes?” he says, trying to suppress a snicker.
I glower at him, but I’m not seriously mad. “See? You’re already laughing at me.”
“Uh-huh, just as I told you I would.”
“Anyway, we didn’t understand why everyone was hanging their flags. We were all, like, ‘Is this a new form of protest?’”
Liam cocks his head and peers directly into my eyes. There I go again, feeling squishy inside. “I don’t follow.”
I explain, “We thought they were hoisting the W in praise of former President George W. Bush.”
His entire body convulses as he holds in his laughter, trying to maintain a straight face. “You thought Cubs Win flags were a form of social activism?”
“That’s about the size of it, yes.” When I face-palm in utter mortification, my hair gets all tangled.
The sides of his lips are curling up, but he manages to not emit a single guffaw. He tucks a stray lock behind my left ear, telling me, “You are too cute for your own good.”
!
!!
!!!
I mentally begin to take notes, as I want to remember every word for when I Skype with Cordy. I need her to tell me if he’s flirting. At this point, I’m pretty sure I am, though. The drinks have made me forget my troubles and now I feel all fluttery inside, like I’m filled to the brim with fizzy water...or Natural Light. Same difference.
He holds up my wrist, which is encircled by loops and loops of beads. “I like this. You didn’t get the memo about the Return to Tiffany bracelet? Every girlfriend demands one on her birthday. Pretty sure it’s in the manual.”
“Afraid not.” I can practically feel an electric charge passing from his skin to mine. “This is a Tibetan prayer bracelet.”
“That mean something special?”
“To practicing Buddhists, yes. The bracelets are used to keep track of prayers. See, there are 108 beads, which is how many times they chant their mantras. They move their fingers along the beads so they can concentrate on what they’re saying and feeling, rather than being distracted by remembering what number prayer they’re on. I made this one with seeds from a Bodhi tree. You feel how the texture is all nubby?”
Liam rubs the beads and I try not to squirm under his touch. Be cool, I tell myself. Act like you’ve been here before.
I continue in a rush, “I bought them on the street in Marrakesh for a song. You don’t have to use Bodhi seeds though—you can grab any stone or seed. But I like Bodhi seeds because this tree is sacred in India, so it’s extraspecial to me. Story is that Buddha was sitting under one when he became spiritually enlightened.”
He looks at me like I’ve just spilled the most delicious secret. “That’s so badass. Wait, hold up—you made this?” he asks, turning my hand this way and that.
“Yep. Here, check this out—the last bead, the anchor?” I point to a smooth piece of jade I’ve strung on the end, with loose strands forming a tassel on the bottom. “This is a guru bead. This one isn’t counted. It’s the end marker. Buddhists skip over it and begin their prayers anew.”
“Where have you been?” he asks.
I shrug. “Everywhere. Name a continent and we’ve set foot on it, save for Antarctica. We do have plans eventually, though, as we’d very much like to hang with the penguins.”
“That’s not what I meant.” He’s still hanging on to my hand as he rubs a thumb over my knuckles.
“Then what did you mean?” I ask. My stomach flops again he gazes directly into my eyes. Hold on, is he going to lean in to kiss me? Is that possible? I think yes. I can feel his breath brush my lips as he exhales.
Before he makes contact and before I can reciprocate (suspect I would reciprocate him rotten, FYI) he catches himself, perhaps remembering that he has a girlfriend who is, sadly, not me. He jumps to his feet and says, “You’re empty. Lemme get you a refill.”
He returns with one glass of beer.
“Nothing for you?” I ask.
“No, I’m being careful. I’m taking meds for my jacked up ACL. In a perfect world, I’d rest it, but with the upcoming games, that’s not an option. Advil wasn’t cutting it, so I’m on something stronger. Drinking with pills is a little too Amy Winehouse, you know?” He takes a prescription bottle out of his pocket and taps out several thick, white oblong tablets. He pops them into his mouth and crunches down.
I shudder. “Oy! Doesn’t that taste like poison?”
He nods. “Works faster if you chew. And yes, tastes like ass, so I will borrow a sip.” He takes my beer and rinses his mouth, but swallows everything instead of spitting. “The doctor is in.”