Everything That Makes You (21 page)

Her mom knocked and opened the door before Fi could say, “Come in.”

She put a few shopping bags on the bed. “This is the best I could do. Finding warm clothes in July is a challenge.”

Fi looked out the window at the blue-skied, 104-degree Memphis morning. She couldn't wrap her head around wearing
sleeves,
let alone fleece. “I don't think I'll need it, Mom. It's July in Chicago, too.”

“It's a ten-hour drive north.”

Fi wasn't sure how that negated
summer,
but she decided not to argue. Her bedroom floor was chaos—three suitcases, one gym bag, one bag for her sticks, a few crates full of supplies, a box of bedding and other stuff for her dorm room, her laptop case. “You don't think we're overdoing it?”

Her mom stood beside her, surveying the lot of it. “Well, you need it all.”

“I'm just going for training camp. They haven't promised me the spot yet.”

“But if they give it to you, you'll have to stay. There are only five days between summer training and new student orientation.”

Fi groaned at the idea of icebreakers with eager, recent high school graduates. At least Jackson would be there to share the pain, since both would start with only one semester behind them. Jackson had taken—and easily passed—a few classes over the year. The dean at Northwestern had agreed to accept only Fi's second semester grades—which was more than she had expected, honestly.

All
of it was more than she'd expected. After sending the email, she and Ryan had agreed that two weeks was a good time frame for a reply. If she hadn't heard back by then, she'd assume the bridge to NU had officially burned.

Within a half hour of pressing
send
on that email, she'd accepted the inevitability of a
no
. She was still online, searching every Division Two team she'd talked to in high school, when the reply appeared in her in-box.

Fi, so glad to hear from you. Why don't you give me a call? Candace Starnes

She stared at the email for almost two full minutes before screaming. Her father tore into the office, like he expected to find a murder victim. Fi pointed to the computer screen. He read the email over her shoulder and let out a giant whoop.

Once they'd calmed down, Fi made the call. Her father
picked up the other line and listened in on mute. At first, her voice came out shaky, but Starnes was conversational. How had Fi liked her classes? What was Milton like, she didn't know it well. How was her family? How was she holding up, was the loss getting a little easier?

As they talked, Fi's voice began to sound more like her own. She nearly forgot this polite woman—her mother would love her—was the Northwestern University women's lacrosse team coach. Nearly forgot until Candace Starnes brought it up.

“So, Fi—tell me about the Milton lacrosse team.”

“Um. Well, they're club. And . . .” She bit down to keep herself from blurting
they suck.

But Starnes already knew. “Not up to your level, are they?”

“No, ma'am.”

“Have you been training?”

“I've tried—on my own. I've lost ground, though.”

“It will be hard work, going from a club team to D-One.”

“Yes, ma'am, I know. But I can do it.”

On her end, Starnes paused. Fi and her father looked at each other nervously. Fi bit at her fingernails until her dad walked over and pulled them out of her mouth.

After a heart-pounding eternity, Starnes said, “Tell you what, Fi. We've got training camp in July. Why don't you come up and work with the team? We'll see how it goes.”

“See how it goes?”

“I've got a spot for a third-string midfielder. Let me be
clear—I'm not committing that spot to you. If all goes well at camp and the school decides to admit you, you still wouldn't start, and you won't get money. That might be an option later, but lots has to happen between now and then.”

Fi took a long, slow breath and looked at her father. He nodded, and she said, “Okay. That's fair.”

“Good answer. So, forward me your transcripts. I'll send you the camp information, and I'll see you in July.”

And here she was, packing for training camp. Her mother shoved a pink sweatshirt—
pink?—
into one of the bags. Fi sank to the bed, suddenly dejected. “What if they send me home?”

“We'll figure something out,” her mom said, sitting beside her. “There are other schools you can talk to.”

“I want this one.”

“I know, sweetie.” She placed a hand on Fi's back, lightly scratching it. “I think it'll work out. I really think you'll get to stay.”

“Why?”

“Mother's intuition.”

Fi shook her head, unconvinced. “I can't make any mistakes. I don't have any left.”

“Well, if you figure out how to go through life without making a mistake, please pass on the wisdom. I could use it.”

She couldn't help but roll her eyes. “Yeah, right.”

Her mother sighed. “I know you think I pushed you too
hard. But—I just didn't want you to make the same mistake I did.”

“What mistake?”

“Not thinking your life through. Not planning.”

“What didn't you plan?”

“I didn't plan on having kids when I was twenty-four,” she said. “I didn't plan on always being just a
mom.
”

Fi's expression must have shown the surprise, because her mom quickly added, “Not that I'm not happy. Not that I'd change it.”

“It kind of sounds like you would.”

Her mom shook her head. “No. You know, I was working for an interior designer when we found out about Ryan. We hadn't planned on starting a family so early, but we were thrilled. Still, I wanted to get my master's degree. Your dad and I figured I could do that while he was a baby. I was six months pregnant when I started the program. But once he was born I was tired all the time, and then we found out you were coming. My plans were put on hold, just for now.” She shrugged. “One thing led to another, and
now
never came.”

“You could have gone back,” Fi said. “You still can.”

“I know,” she said. “Maybe I will.” Her mother nudged her with her shoulder. “See, you're not the only one who's lost her way.”

Even with the explanation, Fi couldn't think of her mother as lost, at least not like she was. Her mother did
lost
so prettily.

“I'm still scared,” Fi admitted. “It's going to be hard.”

“
You
have never been afraid of hard.”

Fi cast her a dubious look. “You've spent the last four years complaining that I am.”

“I may have mentioned the times you
avoid
hard. Once or twice.” Her mother gave a small sideways smile. “But you're also the fiercest person I know. The things you're passionate about, you'll bleed for.”

Fi pictured herself on the ground, gripping a broken ankle and cussing with fluency. That single moment, a little more than two years ago, had changed her life. Blood had soaked through everything that day.

Given the choice, she wouldn't change it.

She'd paid for this
now
in bone and skin. In love and tears. In blood. She'd
earned
this
now.

Leaning into her mother, Fi murmured, “You're right.”

Fi curled on the bed, Panda tucked in his rightful place under her arm. Tonight would be her last night in her own bed, her own room. She was having trouble wrapping her head around the very unclear future just ahead of her. She might be back in a month—or she might not be back until Christmas.

At the knock, she glanced at her overstuffed bags and hoped her mother hadn't stumbled upon some as-yet-undiscovered insulating layer. “Come in.”

The door creaked open, and Trent peeked his head through. “You're not naked, are you?”

Fi shot upright. She hadn't seen Trent since the Ole Miss debacle. She'd texted a few times; they'd had some tense conversations. When she heard from Starnes, her first call was to Trent. She'd left a voice mail, and he'd called right back. He was all polite and encouraging, without a trace of sarcasm.

It hadn't felt right—not at all.

“No, fully dressed,” she said.

“Damn.” He shook his head, coming in. “Long shot, I guess.”

Even taking his current scruffy state into account—his long lacrosse shorts, worn gray T-shirt, and stubbly cheeks—there was no denying that college agreed with Trent McKinnon. Solid muscles held him up while sun-darkened skin held him in. But something else, a hard-to-define
Trentness
, pulled it all together.

“Big day tomorrow.” Trent sat beside her on the bed, nodding his head toward the bags. “Think you've got enough?”

She looked at the bags, too, since looking at Trent was starting to feel awkward. She
hated
that it felt awkward. “I think I packed everything I own.”

He reached across her, plucking Panda from her lap. “Not him.”

“He goes in the morning. He'll suffocate overnight.”

He laughed just a little, turning Panda in his hands. “He's kind of battered, isn't he?”

“Rough work living with me.” Fi regarded Panda sadly at this revelation. Poor guy.

Trent raised a single eyebrow and handed the stuffed bear back. Gesturing at the bags again, he said, “It's like you're never planning on coming back.”

She caught his eyes but couldn't figure out what they said. “I could be back after camp.
We won't know till we know
.” She did this last bit in her best Bruce Doyle voice, who'd said it over and over the past few weeks.

“Nah. You'll stay.” He tapped the side of his head. “I've got a feeling.”

“That's what Mom said.”

“Smart lady. And scary hot for a mom.”

Fiona shoved him with her foot. He caught it and shoved it back at her. “Man, you're slow. Like, turtle-in-cold-syrup slow.”

She tried to kick him once more. He dodged. Shoving and pent-up laughter followed—until, slightly out of breath, they ended their spontaneous wrestling match, lying side by side on their backs. They stared at the ceiling from on top of Fi's messed-up bed.

“So you're not mad anymore?” Fi asked as Trent breathed beside her.

She could feel him shake his head. “Can't stay mad at my Fi-Fi long.”

Still on her back, she moved her head sideways to get a good look at him. She didn't recall having quite this perspective before—seeing those tiny specks of green sprinkled throughout his pale blue eyes. “You're the only one who calls me that.”

“Intentional.” He pivoted his head, too. “A little bit of you that belongs only to me.”

Fi blinked slowly. “Is there a part of you that belongs only to me?”

“Absolutely.”

They stared at each other for a while. Fi didn't know how to say—explain—all the conflicts she felt. Here she was, lying beside her best friend, having distinctly inappropriate best-friend thoughts. But Jackson's words echoed in her head.
Don't get involved. It sucks to lose your best friend.
She'd hated him a little for that advice.

“Trent—” she began.

He shifted to his side, propping his head on his hand. Interrupting her, his voice came out low and husky. Uncharacteristically serious. “You remember when I said you're the reason I evolved past the fart joke?”

Fi nodded at this unexpected change of subject.

Trent closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead for a moment. Finally, he opened his eyes and focused on her. “You know, sometimes I get freaking
terrified
of the past. How the slightest thing could have changed how I got here. Like—what if Ryan got put on another team or your mom signed you up for ballet and you didn't come to the practices? What if my parents bought a different house? They were looking at another one, you know—three blocks east. I'd have gone to a different school, played on a different team.

“There are so many ways this life might not have happened.”
Trent's gaze sharpened on her. He scooted down to lie fully on his side. With a quieter voice—he was just inches from her—he continued. “If you didn't pick up that stick and try to murder me with it in your backyard, if you weren't my best friend, if I was left to become
me
without
you
—God, Fi, I have no idea who I'd be. Even though it all
did
happen, even though we're right here . . . how fragile all this is? It scares the hell out of me.”

Trent's hand came up to Fi's cheek. He used one finger to trace her jawline, then her cheekbone, and then her brow. Eventually, his eyes traveled to hers. “This scares me, too. Your leaving.”

Under his fingers, her nerve endings felt everything—like they'd been turned all the way up. Her muscles had tightened to the point of shattering.

She wanted this from him. And then she didn't. Staying in the dark, ignoring this track they'd been on for a while—it would make the Northwestern choice easier. She could pursue the dream without second guesses or what-ifs trailing right behind her.

Trent shook his head sadly, like he could read her mind. “I'm not asking you to stay. I don't
want
you to stay. You need to do this. I can't force your life into what works for me, anyway. But at least I can tell you, make sure you understand—like, really understand. About me. And how I feel about you.”

Mirroring him, Fi rolled to her side, lining up their faces. She lifted her hand and began to trace along Trent's jawline,
just as he was doing to her. His eyes fluttered closed at the touch. “How do you feel about me?” she whispered.

“You know that girl I described? My type?” He opened his eyes and smiled. “I was describing you. She's you.”