Spinning Out

4

Arrow

I

slam

a third cabinet door shut and open another, looking for the f*****g skillets.

Mia left.

Did I piss her off that much, or did something else call her away? I stood in my room and watched her car roll down the drive and cautiously through the gate. I’m going to have to make my peace with her working here. And I can. I will. f**k. It just took me by surprise. I came home from rehab mentally prepared to serve my house-arrest sentence. The judge acted like he was doing me a favor by letting me serve time here. He obviously doesn’t know what it’s like to be Uriah Woodison’s f**k-up son.

I thought I was prepared—for Dad’s disapproval, for his anger and disappointment—and then Gwen launched the curveball at me.

Mia Mendez is living here while she helps with the baby.

Mia Mendez is eating in my kitchen, sharing my shower.

Mia Mendez is sleeping on the other side of my bedroom wall in a cotton sleepshirt so thin it makes my hands itch to slide under it.

I yank open another cabinet and finally find the skillets. Christ, I just want some food, but I’ll be f*****g damned if I’m going to eat any of the meals in the fridge. My stomach clenched when I saw them—perfectly balanced, prepared meals labeled in Mia’s neat handwriting: quinoa and chicken, peppered flank steak and green beans, fajita frittata.

She’s not just helping with the baby. Dad has her doing his meal prep. As if she’s the Alice to his Brady Bunch or some s**t. So f*****g twisted. Count me out.

I put a skillet on the stove, pour a little olive oil in it, and look around while it heats.

Gwen remodeled this space while she was pregnant. Contractors came in and ripped out the cherry wood cabinets my mother had chosen and replaced them with a stark white variety that feels so sterile you almost expect the place to smell like bleach and commercial disinfectant.

It’s everything my mother’s kitchen wasn’t—cold to the warm, white to the dark, showpiece to the functional. It’s as if she ripped the heart right out of my house.

“That’s f*****g dramatic,” I mutter to myself.

I grab the eggs from the fridge and crack them against the side of a bowl, dumping the egg whites and tossing the yolks in the trash. I chop fresh basil and beat it with the egg whites before pouring the mixture into the skillet.

My phone buzzes, rattling against the white marble countertop.

Keegan: Someone told me they saw Mia Mendez walk into the manager’s office at the Pretty Kitty. I’m heading that way. If there’s a god, she’ll be on stage tonight.

My fist tightens around the phone, but before I can do something stupid like throw it against the wall or, worse, let Keegan know exactly what I think about his hopes for the evening, it buzzes again. And again. Two, three, four messages all coming in at once, making me realize this wasn’t a text he sent just to me but one of those mass-group texts that guarantees to keep my phone rattling for the next half-hour.

I read through the conversation as I stir my eggs.

Mason: You f*****g wish, loser. Mia wouldn’t strip.

Trent: If you love me, you’ll tell me if this happens. But I heard she was working at the Woodisons’—that true, Arrow?

Mason: Not that I object to the idea in theory. Because damn.

Keegan: Why work for the Woodisons? Ass like that and she could make BANK stripping.

Chris: You’re all so low. This is Brogan’s girl you’re talking about. Show some respect.

Brogan’s girl.

I stare at those two words for so long that time drops away. Brogan’s. Girl.

I draw in a breath and my throat burns with smoke. s**t. I throw the exhaust fan on full blast so my burned eggs don’t set off the smoke alarm and wake up everyone in the house. I toss them into the trashcan and put the pan in the sink to soak. Not wanting to embark on another failed cooking attempt, I grab a protein shake from the fridge.

Chris’s mention of Brogan predictably silenced the conversation, but I turn off my phone anyway, shutting it down before I can say something I’ll regret, or worse—find out that she really is stripping.

I twist the cap off my drink, sink into one of the living room couches, and turn on ESPN out of sheer habit.

“Let’s talk biggest draft disappointments,” the announcer says to his co-host. “Give me your top five.”

The broad-shouldered black man taps his papers on the desk in front of him and pushes his glasses up his nose. His name is Craig Jennings, a retired running back for the Indianapolis Colts. When I was in seventh grade, he was my hero. He was the reason I told the coach I didn’t want to play quarterback, even though half my friends were dying for the position. No. I wanted to be Craig. I wanted to power down the field, zigging and zagging like Craig. Finding the holes and making impossible plays. He was the reason I loved football, and that stubborn declaration was just the beginning of a long list of careful decisions that pulled me to the top of my sport at each level.

Craig looks at the camera, lips pursed, eyes serious, and says, “My list starts with Arrow Woodison. And I put him as the number five instead of number one only because he hadn’t yet decided if he’d be entering the draft at the end of this year or playing his senior year at BHU. But even as a long shot, my boy Arrow is nothing short of a profound disappointment for any team who believed they might be able to pick him up this year or next.”

“f**k you, Craig,” I whisper. I made my decisions. I knew what I was doing every step of the way. No one forced me down the path that led to my house arrest.

But when you idolize someone—whether it’s a parent or a football star—you want him to get you. You want him to understand that the terrible choice you made was the best you could do.

I didn’t think I even cared about football anymore, but Craig’s words make me feel claustrophobic. Stuck. Profound disappointment. They kick at the dead dream and remind me I buried myself these last few months, not just my football hopes. But wasn’t that the point?

I grab the remote, but even though I know I should shut off the television, I only turn up the volume, lean back on the couch, and listen to what else the man has to say about me.