HABIT, page 10
“And the mimosa guy?” James leads. I think he’s put the pieces together.
“He’s the son of a guy my dad needs to bend a little. Not every photo of someone with me is used to make them feel good about themselves.”
James pulls his mouth into a tight line and nods.
“To be fair, he hasn’t used me for one of his ploys in a while. The last time before this did not go so well. Rich men can get a little . . . handsy.”
“You mean be classless assholes,” James adds.
I waggle my head.
“You’re not wrong,” I say.
I leave my description of the yacht party out of our conversation. James doesn’t need the details, and honestly, just bringing it to the forefront of my mind makes my body shiver. The memory of my father’s longtime lawyer trying to slip his hand down the back of my dress makes my skin crawl. I can still hear the sound of beads spilling on the ground when I jerked away from him, and his hand ripped the pearl string that held the back of my low-cut dress together. Probably ten thousand dollars’ worth of pearls were lost to the floor of my father’s boat, likely swept into the Atlantic Ocean when all was said and done. By the time I got off the boat, I had no intention of attempting to retrieve them. I had worn the dress on loan from an up-and-coming designer. I had my mom buy it outright . . . and then I burned it.
“So, what happens to mimosa man?” James asks.
“I’m sure mimosa man will be fine,” I retort, a little defensive because truth be told, Paul Flannery isn’t exactly innocent. He leapt at the chance to have breakfast with me, knowing exactly who I was.
“You’re right,” James relents.
His eyes settle on my face and rather than look away, I decide to stare back into them. His lips rest on the verge of opening to speak, but I sense he’s not sure what to say. What is there to say? I’m sorry. What does he have to be sorry about?
“Your dad sounds like a fool,” he finally says, and somehow, it’s the right thing.
I let myself chuckle at the thought and smile faintly.
“I’m sorry to insult him, I know he’s your dad and all, but really, calling it as I see it. The man’s a fool,” he reiterates.
The strangest feeling settles inside my chest, almost like a calmness but more tinged with a dose of confidence. Instead of reminding me that my looks are why I get attention and making me feel guilty for disliking it the way my mother always does, he focuses on my father. On his behavior.
“I think I really like talking to you, James.”
We lock eyes for a few long seconds, and while his touch had me wound up for hours last night, his words have done something entirely more permanent to me now. I think he’s changed me a little. I think I’m better.
“Good. I like listening to you,” he finally says.
The longer we stare at one another, the harder it is to keep our smiles tempered, and eventually the blush hits my cheeks with enough force to cause me to laugh and bury my face in my hands.
“Here, let me help you up,” he says, getting to his own feet then reaching a hand down to me. Our hands lock, his grip tight on mine as he pulls me to my feet, and he doesn’t let go for an extra second or two. The lingering touch is long enough to leave a mark, and long enough to still be happening when his father steps into the gym to join us.
James drops my hand when his dad walks in, and he backs up a few steps, rubbing his neck like a kid caught looking for his Christmas gifts. His dad glances between the two of us, and I tuck my hands under my arms, hugging myself. Imagine if he walked into the locker room and saw us last night.
“Dad, hi. Have you met Morgan?” James’s gaze bounces between me and his dad, and rather than feel offended that he was so fast to rid himself of our physical connection, I’m more amused at his nervous, bashful side.
“I have not. Morgan, nice to meet you. Dave Fuentes,” his dad says, shifting his stack of papers and clipboard under one arm before reaching to shake my hand with the other. I grip his hand tight, the way my father taught me.
“Nice to meet you, officially. Big fan,” I say, glancing at James in my periphery in time to catch him laugh under his breath.
His dad tilts his head to the side, still shaking my hand as he pushes his tongue in his cheek. He’s staring at me with a hint of a smile as if he’s trying to work out what I’m all about.
“This is my sixth year at Welles,” I explain. “I don’t think we have ever won our home opener. So, yeah . . . big fan of your work.”
James’s dad’s laugh sounds just like his—deep and gravelly, the kind that makes people turn their heads and wish they were in on the joke.
“Well, I appreciate that, Morgan. It’s nice to have student buy-in. It helps the team.” The similarities between father and son are uncanny, and as his dad lets go of my hand a brief flash of how similar the two of them are physically also crosses my mind. Coach Fuentes is incredibly handsome, and maybe only an inch or so shorter than his son. While not as built, his body is equally toned, and the sharp angles of his face are clearly the same ones passed down to James. Along with his hazel eyes. And if James is lucky, the slight peppering of gray on the sides of his head will come along too.
“Are you on the volleyball team, Morgan?”
I bust out a quick laugh at his dad’s assumption.
“No, I’m pretty sure I would be a great disservice to the sport by simply being on the court,” I say.
“Ah.” He smiles.
“She was getting her workout in. Seems I’m not the only early weekend riser,” James fills in. I let my mouth hang open as he works to explain my presence to his dad, and for the first time this morning, I feel the need to retreat. His dad is pleasant toward me, but I get the sense that he’s not entirely glad I’m here.
“You have a lot of early mornings in your future. We have work to do,” his dad says, stepping in close enough to grip his son’s shoulder. Their eyes meet in a strange quiet agreement, and I realize that James has his own set of complications in his relationship. Healthier ones, for sure. But still . . . he has some expectations to live up to.
“James is incredible with the ball,” I blurt out. My random decision to bolster James’s ego in front of his dad draws both of their stares. I glance between both sets of wide eyes and frozen open-mouthed smiles.
“I mean at quarterbacking, is all. He’s good at it. Like, way better than anyone we’ve ever had. Probably because of how hard he works. You should be proud, I mean. Of his work ethic. And I’m sure he will be here early every morning. And . . .” I’m starting to panic-speak and judging by the shocked stare still fixed on both Fuentes men’s faces, I’m guessing I probably should have stopped after the word incredible.
“I pay Morgan to say nice things about me,” James says, letting me off the hook. I exhale, hoping my relief isn’t as apparent as it feels. I feel like an overblown balloon losing half its air.
“I did your dad for free,” I say, leaning in to whisper.
And this time even my eyes bug out.
Shut up, Morgan.
“All right, well, I’m about done. James, enjoy the rest of your workout. Mr. Fuentes, it was very nice to meet you. I have homework to get to. You all . . . carry on.” I flit my fingers at them both before turning around and clutching my keys to my chest. I don’t turn around a single time, and when I get back to my room, I avoid my phone for a full hour. This time not for the missed calls from my mother but because if I have a message from James asking if I’ve lost my mind I will have to answer honestly.
“Yes. Apparently I have,” I will say.
I give in when my roommates come home, and only because the absence of my phone will draw questions from them. When I see a DM from James, my stomach soaks with adrenaline and my fingers tingle.
Shit, shit, shit.
I open my messages while half-listening to Brooklyn talk about her day with Cameron. I click on James’s icon and hold my breath as I ready myself to read his message.
JAMES: For being so famous on social media you sure know how to make a conversation awkward. LOL. Seriously, though, my dad said you were delightful. His word, not mine. I don’t think you’re delightful. I think you’re incredible. I mean, not like as incredible as I am with the ball. You know, at quarterbacking, but . . .
I’m smiling to myself as I read his ribbing message, and Brooklyn stops speaking when she notices me.
“Who are you chatting with?” she teases.
I hold my phone to my chest and meet her suspicious glare. It’s harmless nosiness between roommates, and these are the kinds of things Brooklyn and I talked about all the time when Anika was around. But for some reason, I feel strangely protective over whatever this is with James. I don’t want to share it, and maybe because I don’t know what to call it. Or maybe I’m protecting myself before it goes away, the way the good stuff always does.
“Just a meme,” I answer. She studies me for a beat but buys my response and goes right back into telling me about whatever Cameron did in the cafeteria this morning.
I prop my phone on my chest and send James a quick emoji of a middle finger. It takes him only seconds to respond. And the heart he sends in return literally flattens me.
Chapter 10
James
I could tell Morgan was embarrassed when she left. I could also tell my dad was not happy to see me in there alone with her. To make Morgan feel better, I messaged her and told her my dad enjoyed meeting her. And to soothe my dad’s not-so-subtle lifted eyebrow glare through his office window after Morgan left, I stayed and put in another hour of cardio and lifting. On top of the hour of work I’d already put in.
My body is limp, my muscles dead. If I had to hang onto the edge of a cliff for dear life right now, I’d be kissing my dear life goodbye. I’ve got nothing left. My fingers are even spent.
My mom doesn’t always work on Sundays, but sometimes if she takes on too many clients, she gets behind and has to go in to wrap up a quarter for someone. Because my father and I are basically helpless at feeding ourselves without her, or maybe because our taste buds are simply spoiled and unwilling to eat the bland shit we make on our own, she always leaves us with an ample serving of leftovers.
I pull out the chicken flautas she left wrapped in the fridge along with her detailed instructions, so I don’t ruin them. I’m starving, but it’s worth the extra time to heat up the oven. My mom’s right. While I punch in three-hundred-fifty degrees on the setting, my dad comes home and proceeds to unwrap his own portion, ignoring my mom’s best advice and nuking it for a minute thirty.
“They’re gonna be gross,” I warn.
My dad licks the dab of sauce from his fingertip after disposing of the tinfoil then looks at me.
“It’s your mother’s cooking. I could put it in a blender and warm it in the sun and it would still be amazing.” He grins, proud of his point, but I stick to the plan. Crispy always wins when it comes to flautas.
I fill my gallon bottle with ice and move to the sink to add water as my dad waits impatiently for his spinning plate in the microwave. He’s dumped his work bag and a pile of papers on the counter, and I start to flip through them.
“Don’t touch my stuff,” he scolds, his back to me. That eyes in the back of the head thing is real, I swear. Both of my parents have a knack for it.
“You working on next week’s game plan?” I ask.
The microwave dings, and my dad pulls out his plate, rushing it to the counter when he burns his fingers.
“Damn it!” He licks the scalded skin and I bunch my lips and raise a brow when he looks at me.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m impatient. Sue me. I’m hungry,” he grunts. His mood is unpleasant, and I can’t help but think it has to do with two things—Toby’s family, and finding me in the gym with Morgan.
“I was thinking, maybe I should hit up Theo and run some pass plays with him today, get some extra work in. I think he’s fast enough for me to hit him deep, really show off my arm.”
“Toby’s starting Saturday,” he interjects, giving me side eyes as he passes by and moves to the kitchen table.
“I’m sorry Dad, but what the fuck?”
His fist comes down like a hammer, rattling his fork against the plate and the plate against the tabletop. I don’t respond for a few seconds but eventually utter ‘sorry.’ My dad doesn’t see a reason for me to swear, ever. Though I would bet my left nut he’s dropped plenty of F-bombs when it comes to Toby. He just keeps them away from my ears. Sometimes.
“Only the first set of downs. And if I give him the start, it keeps the illusion of balance. I can’t show favoritism in any way, and you know that. Maybe if yesterday’s game wasn’t such a—”
“A clusterfu—”
He points a finger at me so I stop mid-word. He rolls his eyes, though, knowing I’m right. He pushes his food into an enormous bite then blows on the forkful before shoveling it in his mouth.
“I performed well. We were missing my main target, and that’s not on me. It’s on Theo, and Raskin. We’ve gotta fix this discord on the team, Dad. There has to be a way we can get people to quit working against one another.” I flop down into the chair opposite of him and stare as he devours his lunch in record time.
“Theo’s out for two games. Suspended. And no practice,” my dad adds after his final bite.
“Come on!” I protest.
I lean forward and rub my temples. I’m half tempted to pull the plug on everything. At least if I went back to Public I might be able to petition to keep my full season, and I would be a star there, get a full ride to a state school. Yeah, I’d probably never reopen Delgado’s in the same neighborhood it started in, but we could make something work.
“I’m working on Theo. I have a meeting with the headmaster in . . .” My dad checks his watch then stands quickly and moves his dish to the sink. “Shoot, like thirty minutes.”
“Should I join you? Would it help?” I move into the kitchen behind him to check the status of my lunch. Maybe I should have sacrificed quality for speed. My stomach is continuously rumbling.
“I’ve got this one. And sadly, it will help that I’m starting Toby. There’s this weird kinship thing going on with some of the longtime families here, and I have a feeling me showing some compassion toward the Sullivans will help my case to get Theo back faster,” he says.
“And what about my case?” My ribs vibrate with the steady drum of my heart. It’s pumping with the extra umph of a child about to throw a tantrum. Only, I’m a six-foot-two, eighteen-year-old child. And I’m willing to throw swings.
My dad fills a glass with water and gulps down nearly two thirds before pausing, resting it on the counter and turning his head toward me.
“You’ll get in on Saturday. And when you do, you’ll show what you can do. But if you really want to help your case, I think you need to think long and hard about who you sneak off with in the early morning hours.”
He holds my stare, blinking slowly to accentuate his point, as if I need any help understanding what he means. My raging toddler heart starts to beat wildly, partly because my dad’s accusation is way off target, but more so that he’s insulting a young girl he knows zero about.
“I went to the gym. Early, because I knew that would look good and because I am fully dedicated to this,” I say, my words rigid and clipped.
“Fully dedicated,” my dad echoes through a breathy laugh.
“Yeah, Dad. I am. And I can’t control who else shows up while I’m working my ass off.” My nostrils flare with my heavy breath.
“Indeed, you can’t, son,” he says, emptying his glass of the remaining water and running a towel around the rim before setting it to the side. Gripping the towel in his fist, he smacks it down on the counter then turns to face me. I flinch but stand my ground. My dad and I don’t fight like this. Ever. And the way my senior year is unfolding is making me sick.
My parents went through a lot last year, and I only know part of the story. I’m sure if I sat them down and asked for the details, they would share. We’re that kind of family—open and honest. At least, I thought we were. I was worried about my parents getting a divorce, and I know they went to counselling for an entire year. They never hid that from me. But the abrupt move here has always left me wondering if it was really for me or for them.
“Why do I feel like you’re blaming me?” I know my dad has to get ready for this meeting, but I don’t like leaving things up in the air between us. There’s this fog rolling in and it’s messing up our relationship. I want to clear it.
My dad exhales and looks down before moving closer and squaring his shoulders with mine. He looks up and rests a palm on my shoulder, looking up the two-inch difference into my eyes.
“I’m not blaming you, James. And I’m sorry I made you feel that way.” He draws in a deep breath through his nose as he holds my stare, and I find myself doing the same in preparation for whatever’s coming next.
“I want to give you your dreams. At the very least, your mom and I, we want you to have better than we had. It’s the cycle of life for parents and their kids. It’s only that this place is, well, challenging. I’m not used to this kind of politicking. And I’m sorry that I’m not adept at how to navigate it while maintaining my integrity.”
I swallow down the lump in my throat. My dad’s words remind me of the many reasons I’ve always idolized him. I want to live the way he does—by a code. And it’s so hard to stick to that path, especially when you’re young and surrounded by temptations.
It’s not that my father is pious. I’ve seen him drunk plenty of times, and I’ve heard the stories about his college days and the girls he dated before he met Mom. But when it comes to the important stuff, to family and friendships and people in general? I want to follow his lead. His heart is always pure. Even now as he straddles the lines in an effort to help his son earn a starting position, he still wants to do right by Toby. And I guarantee that Toby and his father don’t give a rat’s ass about the ethical standards my father has. They make up their own rules, and maybe that’s what’s got him in the mood he’s in. Still, it’s admirable as hell to watch him fight so hard to stick to that line.
