HABIT, page 2
Alone!
A low growl leaves my mouth behind my hand as I attempt to clear my throat without drawing more attention, but it only makes the choking sensation worse. Bless Theo for timing his moody boy fit to right this second. I cup my entire face and cough hard, the kind that makes my eyes water and my cheeks heat, just as Theo storms away from the table. He’s clearly pissed that Lily and James are flirting and making plans, regardless of the aloof tough guy act he’s putting on. If I were Anika, I’d march after him and give him sage advice that would somehow encourage him to come crawling back to Lily, ready to be honest and apologize. But I’m not Anika. And I’m choking.
Without warning, I’m on my feet, and the same warm hand that I shook a moment ago is splayed out across my sternum. Even if I weren’t choke-coughing, I lost my breath at the sensation of my feet leaving the ground. James hauls me into his body from behind, and before I have a chance to swoon over his embrace, his other hand slaps at my back. Twice. Nope, three times. And that’s when I realize he thinks I’m choking choking, as in something is stuck. And everyone is looking on while he handles me like a puppy who swallowed a piece of shoe.
Mortified, I manage to grab his wrist and slap the back of his hand with my own as a signal that I’m okay. He sets me back on my feet and spins me around, inspecting my eyes. They’re teary, half because the dry-throat cough does that to me and half because he just tried to Heimlich me using every single technique the professionals say not to use.
“I’m good,” I croak out.
Honestly, I still need to clear my throat, but I’ll be damned if I’m ever coughing in his presence again.
A few people around us clap and James smiles and takes in the praise while his cheeks redden from the attention. I wonder how many people caught that on video and are already tagging my social accounts. Other people’s posts about me trend more than my own at this point. I’m sure this one will be viral in an hour.
“You should have taken my water,” Brooklyn says, leaning into me and handing me her bottle. It’s half full, and my pride is empty, so I take it begrudgingly and twist the cap off before bringing it to my lips.
James and Lily are exchanging phone numbers, and there’s an actual smile on her face. My esophageal distress eases, but I stay in the background, looking on while they make plans to meet up. I don’t need to have everything I want. Besides, I don’t really want James all that much anyhow. He’s cute. And new. I can let Lily have this one. Maybe he’ll be the distraction she needs. Or perhaps he’ll be the signal Theo needs to get his shit in order.
I feel things out on our walk back to our room, asking Lily what she thinks of James. She brushes me off with short answers, which triggers my needling nature to pry even harder. I sound like a crazy jealous girl, hyper-focused on a guy I met only minutes ago. I’d like to say I’m not, but the more I question her about what she thought of his eyes, of his tall, built body, of him being the new quarterback, of the class she offered to help him with and so on, the more confused I am about my own intentions. I quit working her over when I catch a sideways glance from Brooklyn, whose pulled-back brown hair and tightly drawn lips give off a certain librarian-about-to-bust-me vibe.
Back in the comfort of our room, music playing and jammies on, I sit back into my corner filled with pillows and silently take in our new shared home for the next nine months. A day will come when it feels normal. I believe that. I pledge to myself not to bring James up to Lily again unless it looks as though there really is a spark between them. The silent promise stings, and I bury that feeling too because the only reason I feel it is jealousy. It’s one stupid boy. One I’ve known for about seventeen minutes, three of which were spent with him essentially burping me. Besides, these feelings are probably more about me mourning attention that once came so easily. A year ago, there is no way I would not be either planning my first date with James by now or stringing him along on my own terms.
Curious, I settle under my blanket and search my social accounts for any mention of tonight’s choking incident. I recognized a few of the students filming on their phones, so I scout their pages first, bracing myself to see the likes and comments climbing on the video. Only, there are no mentions to track. None of the obvious hashtags or keywords bring up the video. A novice might think people are simply waiting to post it, but that’s not how this game works for people like us. A video of someone like me getting an unnecessary Heimlich is social media gold, and being the first to post that kind of thing is rule number one. At least, it would have been. Before.
Fact is, my numbers are down by more than thirty percent. I dipped below a million on my best platform. There are fewer people looking. Fewer people caring. And I’d venture to guess half of those people who filmed me at dinner have already deleted it from their phones to save space.
I didn’t really want the video to be seen. But I did expect it. Negative attention is still attention.
Angry at myself for caring, I click my screen off and toss my phone into the folds of my comforter and give my attention over to Brooklyn and Lily who are doing a deep dive into Theo’s behavior. I guess there was an incident during the internship interviews today, something about him tripping Lily in front of the panel. Somehow, the two of them landed the same internship at the end of it all.
“Where did you get in?” It’s the first time anyone has asked, and I think Lily is bringing it up now simply to get the focus off her and Theo.
I shrug and sink deeper into my covers.
“It’s a small PR company. Is it bad that I don’t even remember the name? It’s on my form,” I say, nodding toward my desk.
Everyone at Welles assumed I would intern with my father at Bentley Inc. I told my friends I didn’t want to give my dad the satisfaction of working for him, but the truth? I was afraid he would reject me. Being passed over by your own father cuts deep, and I’m not strong enough to handle that right now, No matter how many times I have before in my life.
“Opal and Jayne,” Brooklyn says, standing in front of my desk with my packet in her hands.
“That’s right. I picked them because I liked their name,” I admit.
Brooklyn laughs out, “Oh, my God,” and rolls her eyes, tossing my papers back on my desk and retreating back to her bed.
I also like that they do a lot of small business grand openings, but having to post on social media again regularly, if even for somebody else, does make my heart burn. I’m hoping I don’t fail at this job, or worse, get stuck writing media advisories for ribbon cuttings.
Brooklyn is sharing the details of her posting, which was a given from the time she started at Welles. Her father is a big name in politics, and she’ll be working in the mayor’s office downtown. The business is in her nature and her blood.
She’s reciting her interview questions and practically putting Lily to sleep when I feel a vibration against my knee. I reach down for my phone, sliding it up but keeping the screen hidden so Brooklyn doesn’t see my attention being divided. I expect a calendar reminder on my screen, but instead it’s a new follow request for my secret personal Instagram profile, the one I keep private and hidden, and only post on rarely and for close friends and the cousins.
I note the profile name: JimmyNo1. I’m biting my lip as I accept and follow back, tapping the side of my device with nervous fingers while I wait for JimmyNo1 to accept in return.
“Are you listening to me?” Brooklyn cuts in.
“Totally. You were telling them about a difficult situation you faced recently and how you problem solved.” My listening skills are adept. Almost superhero-like. I think it’s from having to multi-task at such a young age, making posts while people wanted me to mingle.
“Right, so . . .” Brooklyn continues.
My hand buzzes and I sink lower into my pillow fort, blocking her view of my phone as I tap on JimmyNo1’s profile icon and take in the many, many workout photos of the newest Welles quarterback.
My heart kicks, and that steady drum keeps me awake until well past midnight stalking every post he’s ever made and hoping he’s doing the same to mine.
Chapter 2
James Fuentes
Of course I know who Morgan Bentley is. I’m an eighteen-year-old male who has been on social media since I was eleven. I may have grown up on the south side, but Morgan Bentley was the hot girl on TikTok down there too.
I figured I would run into her at some point, but I didn’t think it would be in a social situation. I thought maybe a class, or from across the gym, or at a game or whatever. My friends from my old school have been asking. That’s the only thing they knew about Welles Academy—this is the school the hot TikTok chick goes to. It’s also one of the toughest private schools on the east coast, and my public-school experience is going to show in the classroom pretty quick. I’m guessing there won’t be a girl here willing to let me copy her test answers over her shoulder.
I’m going to have to work, and that’s fine. I want that. My dad’s right. If I want to rescue my grandfather’s business, bringing it back from bankruptcy and turning it into something to be proud of, I need to focus. The people who took his business off the map knew the loopholes and had an edge. An Ivy League degree gives me equal footing and connections. Football is my way in.
Our apartment smells amazing as I step through the door. I went to dinner with the guys because I need them on my side. I need friends. But damn, my mom’s cooking is the only thing that comes remotely close to my grandfather’s. I draw in the scent, practically tasting the flavors without taking a bite. Ahhhh, home.
“Come. Try this,” my mom says while stirring a pot of simmering goodness on the stove. I drop my bag on the couch and head into the kitchen, obeying her request. I open my mouth and wait for her to hold up the spoon. It’s steaming a little, so I blow on the red sauce before tasting it. Once I do, my tastebuds instantly transport me around the world. A piece of Mexico, and maybe some Brazilian hints in the seasoning. It’s hot, but not in that way that burns the tongue. It's like the effects of a good whiskey, warming me from the inside out.
“You like?” She quirks a brow.
I lick my lips, making sure I get every spare taste into my mouth, and let my smile grow. “That’s phenomenal. You come up with that?”
She waggles her head modestly.
“It’s a version of Papa’s, with my own little kick.”
I reach in front of her and dip a finger in, then suck the sauce off of it.
“It’s really good,” I say as she smacks my elbow for touching her creation.
“Your dad is in our room working on practice plans. Check in with him,” she says, waving me away.
I attempt to take one more taste before I go, but she shoves me away with a push of her hip. I hold up my hands and laugh.
“Fine, I’m going. But that better reheat.” I point to the pot. She waves me off.
My mom is insanely talented. My papa, her dad, owned a small bodega-style shop on the street level of an older southside building. It was popular with the locals, but never big enough to really break through that bubble and draw in serious customers. But Papa had a plan. Unfortunately, the building owners had their own. Down came the building and up went the fancy new condo high rise. Papa’s five-year plan turned into a decade-long one, and that deadline passed two years ago.
I was six when he lost the store, and sometimes I wonder if it made such a huge mark on me because I was so young. If it had happened later, when I started at Public High for example, I might not have been so invested in a small business dream. But that store—and the stool I sat on in the back by the chalkboard he let me draw whatever I wanted on—was everything to me. It was this magical little hole in the wall where everyone in the neighborhood was nice and where my grandfather whistled while he cut strips of meat in the back. And it always smelled like my kitchen does right now.
My mom doesn’t belong keeping the books for other people’s business dreams. She belongs learning and creating from her roots. She’s happiest with a spoon in her hand and steam streaming from her pots. It’s what Papa would want. All I need out of the deal is a stool to sit on from time to time.
I knock on the open door as I step into my parents’ bedroom and my dad merely glances up over the golden rims of his glasses, the glow of the laptop screen covering most of the lenses.
“Studying us? Or are you checking out competition?” I ask, flopping into the leather chair in the corner of their room. My dad has turned their bed into a mini-office with notes strewn around along with his enormous whiteboard that he keeps both the team schedule on as well as his thoughts on each week’s strengths and weaknesses.
“Both,” he grunts, flitting his eyes up at me briefly.
“You’re going to need to do something for an office. They give you one in the fieldhouse, you know. Mom might want to come to bed at some point.”
My dad draws in a deep breath through his nose then pulls his glasses from his face and squeezes the bridge of his nose before flipping his laptop around for me to view.
“It’s kind of hard to scout your son’s personal competition in a place where anyone can walk up behind you and see what you’re doing,” he says.
My brow furrows and I take his laptop into my hands, resting it on my thighs and playing through a few of the videos he’s pulled up. The one he just paused is from the final game last season. I can tell by where my dad has it paused that he’s focusing on Toby’s footwork. He’s slow getting out of the pocket and as I let the clips play on, the more obvious his desire becomes to remain there, protected by his linemen. The next one is Toby’s scout video. It’s average, and I only think that to be nice. Deep down, I can’t fathom a college recruiting coach at any level flagging him as a prospect. Of course, his dad owns several golf resorts along the coast, so I’m sure that will help get him some looks.
His dad.
Kirk Sullivan.
That’s why my dad is researching Toby.
“It’s gonna be a problem, isn’t it?” I lean forward and slide the laptop along my dad’s mattress next to where he sits. He pushes it shut, still pinching the bridge of his nose as he nods.
“There’s already a lot of grumbling. And I have a meeting with Mr. Sullivan tomorrow. Can’t imagine he’s not going to put some pressure on me.” My dad’s hand falls to his lap, and he lifts his chin, leveling me with that honest look he wears.
“What can I do?” I lean back into the seat and slump down.
“Keep throwing the ball like you did today. When we scrimmage, make him look foolish. Make it impossible for anyone in their right mind to argue against you starting over him. We’ve been here before. I don’t put up with pressure; you know that.”
My dad stacks his papers and pulls his mess together while I let the pit of my stomach drop through the bottom of the chair and glue me to the floor.
“I’m a senior now. It’s not like we can pack up and find another prep school looking for a coach and willing to give his kid a tuition break.” My pulse hammers in my gut. This is why I hate getting my hopes up. There is always a barrier, always another hill to climb. I don’t mind climbing them, but damn, man. When am I going to plateau?
My dad shovels his work and the laptop into his leather bag and moves it to the top of his dresser before reaching out a hand to help me up. I take his grip and stand square with him. He puts his other hand on my shoulder, holding firm—solid—and our eyes lock.
“You want this?” Like he has to ask.
I’ve watched my parents work so hard to do things that matter to them. My dad loves coaching, but he’s never been able to break through that ceiling that keeps him out of the conversation for high-profile high school jobs. He’d give anything to coach at the college level one day too, but he’s got to get out of the basement first. And mom—she’s a decent accountant. But she should be doing her own books, for her family’s legacy. As for me, I simply don’t want to work for anyone other than myself. I know at first I will have to. But I want that time of my life to be as short as possible. I’ve watched too many dreams by people I love get stuck under the boots of bad bosses.
“I want this,” I reply. We both nod, sealing the same agreement we make every time adversity rears its head.
I turn to leave my parents’ room, but before I pass through the door and head down the hallway to my own room, my dad stops me.
“On that note, son, I like that you are making friends. And it’s good to see you bonding with some of the guys on the team.” He pauses and I quirk a brow, waiting for the but part of this statement.
“But maybe let’s stay focused and keep those relationships tight, and to the team.”
And there it is. My girlfriend last year was what some might classify as toxic. Neveah was a bit into drama—starting it, spreading it, prolonging it. She was hot, which was my small-minded side’s weakness. She wanted more from me than I could give, though. More time. More commitment. More compromise. Our fights were epic, and constantly found their way into my father’s business. Of course, so did her drama.
“I’m older now, Dad,” I reassure him. “More mature.”
“James, you’re literally four months older than you were when we had to file a family restraining order against her. Please take me seriously.”
My chest falls and my mouth forms a straight line.
“What if I already got a tutor for something and she’s a girl?” Lily’s cute, and I know my dad is going to take one look at her and make a boatload of assumptions about my intentions. As beautiful as she is, though, that’s honestly not why I connected with her. Her story is at the top of everyone’s mind at Welles, the girl who saved her friends from drowning in the river. I admire her for sure. I also found her to be encouraging, and this school is going to be tough for me. I barely made the academic cut at Public. I have a gap to close here, and Lily is willing to help me. She seems smart, but also patient. I simply want to be her friend.
