They were eternal with their influence rippled out for decades and centuries after the artist was gone. I’d learned that was the kind of permanence you got with things, never people.
Taking my worn-in spot on the green leather sofa, I flipped open my laptop and scrolled through my emails. Italian names were sprinkled throughout my inbox.
Checklists, introductions and arrangements to be made. My first step to my new adventure. Italy. After so many years, internship application essays and interviews, it was so close.
Part of me was afraid to get my hopes up, that the trip couldn’t live up to the hype, but the other part of me was screaming ‘Italy, fuck yes!’ from a convertible screaming down the Italian coast.
An office door opened, muted by the old carpet and hallways lined with bookshelves filled with dissertations and portfolios. “Marisa?”
I glanced up from my laptop. “Hi, Professor Morgan.”
“Excited for your trip?” She was part of the reason I’d decided to focus on museum studies in my art history major. Her outfits reminded me much more of Indiana Jones than a stuffy museum tour guide, and her love of art radiated off her, from her tattoos to the ornate earrings paying homage to classic works of art.
She was my favorite professor and had gotten me my internship at the Museum of Art.
“Very—and a little scared. Thanks so much for the opportunity.”
“You earned it. After your exciting spring break, I’m glad you’ll get a chance to have some fun this summer.”
“Me too.” It also meant I didn’t have to go home for the summer. Was it even my home at this point? Maybe I’d adopt the bohemian nomad persona instead of going back to my mom’s house.
Not that going to Italy would ever come in second place to staying on campus or bumming around on people’s couches for two months.
“When do you leave?”
“Two weeks after my last final, so I only have three weeks left.” Nervous flutters took flight in my stomach.
She checked her watch. “Another faculty meeting for me. Email me any time you need anything, and if I don’t see you before you go, then have a wonderful trip.”
The walk back to the townhouse was longer than it needed to be. Every errand I hadn’t gotten to over the past three weeks racked up in my head into what would’ve normally been a scary long list. But right now, it was perfect.
In addition to studying and taking my finals, I could pick up more tutoring sessions, which meant I could buy a new bathing suit and underwear for my trip.
The back-breaking couch of death was calling my name and whispering sweet nothings to me. Sleeping downstairs would mean I could wait for silence overhead before sneaking up to the bathroom.
At least there were only three weeks until I left for Venice. It would give us both some distance after the Wake Up Call of Regret. After the summer, things could go back to normal. Pretending things were fine wasn’t new territory to me.
6
LJ
My fingers dug into the dirt and grass. Panting, I was on my knees with sweat pouring down my face, blinding me. My heart jammed against my ribs with each beat as I gasped for air.
The sun beat down on me, baking my pads and roasting my body. We didn’t usually fully suit up for spring practices, but today had been an exception. Sweat squished inside my cleats.
The shrill whistle blew above me.
Coach Saunders’ feet came into view before he crouched down in front of me. “Is there a problem, Lewis?”
I gritted my teeth and pushed up off the ground. “No, sir.” Standing, I let my arms fall to my sides, although all I wanted to do was brace my hands on my knees and try not to puke.
“Good.” He blew the whistle and called for another set of wind sprints.
The whole team groaned and went to the end zone line.
Berk wiped his face with his shirt, but it was already soaked and didn’t do much to stop the steady stream pouring down his face. “If these guys find out we’re doing this because you’re sleeping with Marisa, they’re going to crucify you.”
“All we’re doing is sleeping.”
“Hasn’t stopped him from trying to burn a hole through your skull with his eyes.” Another reason to keep things between Marisa and me platonic for now. It hurt almost as much as my calves.
The team of a hundred and twenty guys stood on the end zone line in two rows and Coach Saunders stood with the clipboard at his side flanked by the support coaching staff.
He sounded the whistle and we took off for another round of torture.
Fifteen heart-bursting, leg-wrecking, lung-burning minutes later I collapsed. Other guys puked and some wandered aimlessly like they were hallucinating or had decided screw this and were walking home.
After crawling off the field, I drained the ice water from my water bottle. Finally able to breathe in more than short pants, I set it down and began the long march.
On this sunny, bright day each step felt like one closer to my execution. Coach had his back to me, headset around his neck and clipboard at his side.
“Coach Saunders.” I cleared my throat. Even after all that water, my mouth was sawdust dry.
He stopped, his back straightening, and turned to face me, face neutral, but gaze biting.
“Can I speak with you, sir?”
His gaze scanned me from head to toe before he issued a curt nod and took off toward the locker rooms.
I jogged after him, my muscles screaming with each step. “About yesterday.”
“What about yesterday?”
“About Marisa staying over at my place…” The words took off like birds migrating, leaving my brain an empty pond.
He made a gruff noise.
“We’ve been friends for a long time and I wanted to make sure she was okay.”
“From the rumble you made coming down the stairs and the state of you, it didn’t look like you were only making sure she was okay.” His words were clipped and blistering.
“Ask Marisa and she’ll tell you we’re only friends. Best friends, but it hasn’t gone beyond that.”
“But you’d like it to, huh? Has she shut you down?” His scathing chuckle grated with his enjoyment of my imaginary and not-so-imaginary blue balls when it came to Marisa. “Good for her. I can’t imagine she’d want to follow in the footsteps of me and her mom.” His mouth twisted in a grim line.
Marisa had never been too open about what happened with her parents other than her dad leaving when she was eight to take over the assistant coaching position at Ohio State.
He never came around much—ever, that I knew of. I hadn’t ever met him before, and I hadn’t made the connection between the two until Marisa told me she was transferring to Fulton U because her dad was the head coach here.
“There are two spring practices left. You need to think long and hard about how much your future in football matters to you.” His pointed glare sent a pit plummeting to the depths of my stomach. “Dismissed.”
Clenching my hands at my sides, I turned and left, walking back to the locker room. The threat was clear. Cross the line with Marisa and I was done. After three national championships he’d probably sacrifice our chances this season to bench me as much as he could. He could go out and recruit some of the best offensive linebackers out there to take my spot and the team would never miss a beat.