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“Do you still play? For fun? Ormaybe competitively?”
I glance at her and immediatelyregret asking—she is tense like a spring. Her right hand isclenched, rubbing and squeezing the fingers on her left one. “No.Not really,” she finally responds.
We are quiet for a while, bothfocused on the road. It’s Saturday morning and traffic is not ashectic as during weekday rush hour, but the highway is still busy,with all the people going shopping and kids being driven tosporting events.
“It’s so strange having you here,”she breaks the silence. “You’re the only person in my currentcircle who knows me from the time when I stopped playing. It allseems so long ago. Like it happened to someone else.”
“Don’t you miss it?” I ask.
“I don’t allow myself to thinkabout it. Giving it up used to hurt too much.”
“I bet you’d still kick ass insome local masters league,” I say. “Or you could try coaching. Youwere so good.”
“How do you know I was good?”
“You showed me a couple ofrecordings of you playing for UW freshman year. Don’t youremember?”
“Now that you mentioned it, I do,actually.” She sighs. “Wow. I hadn’t thought about those inages.”
She doesn’t say anything else, butit feels like the temperature in my car has dropped a few degrees.I regret bringing up basketball … I’ve clearly upset her.
“I always talk too much whenyou’re around,” she says. “Even in college, we’d hang out and I’djust talk and talk and talk. I think I did most of the talking foras long as I’ve known you. Why do you think that is?”
“Dunno,” I say. “I’m a goodlistener, I suppose. And you always seem to have things tosay.”
“That’s the thing—I don’t. Notusually. Unless I know someone really well, I prefer to sit quietlyand be all brooding and mysterious. But your presence seems to havean alcohol-like effect—it loosens my tongue and makes me sharestuff. It’s disgusting, all this oversharing.” She’s back to herrelaxed, joking self, and I feel the tension in my bodydissipating, too.
“It’s not disgusting. I likehearing the stuff you have to say. Always have.”
Something changes in the airbetween us. I feel pin pricks on my skin.
“The day I saw you by themailboxes,” Roxie says, “I realized I don’t actually know very muchabout you. We spent a lot of time hanging out, but I was so wrappedup in catching up on my coursework, and whining about basketball, Irarely asked anything about you.”
“Ask away. What do you want toknow?”
“You’re from California,right?”
“Right. San Diego.”
“So how’d you come to Wisconsinfor school?”
“It was my dad’s undergraduatealma mater. He’s the biggest Badgers and Packers fan on the WestCoast. Also, I got a scholarship.”
“And you were supposed to become alawyer like your dad.”
“Correct. I did become a lawyer,but not exactly like my dad.” I look at her briefly, then turn myattention back to the road. “Dad’s plan was for me to get apoli-sci degree, go to law school, and eventually take over hispractice. But I was always interested in science and doing stuffwith my hands. Unfortunately, I was also a wimpy kid who allowedhim to steer me in the direction he wanted for far too long. I waspretty miserable in my classes when you and I met.”
“I’m sorry,” Roxie says. “I had noidea.”
“I mean, I was always a goodstudent, and I did well in my courses even though I really hatedmost of them. I convinced myself I was doing what I was supposed todo. But it was actually you who helped me figure things out.”
Her eyes widen in disbelief. “Me?How?”
“Seeing how you dealt with nolonger being able to play, all that grief and loss, how youcommitted fully to your CS major, it really meant a lot. Seeing howyou redefined yourself and how brave you were. You really inspiredme, Roxie. Thank you.”
I wish we were parked now, so Icould look at her properly instead of merely glancing. Her body isturned toward me, arms straight, hands clasped together and tuckedbetween her thighs. Her expression is serious, but her eyebrows areever so slightly up and her lips are parted, both hinting at awelcome surprise whose full effect she’s trying hard not to reveal.She seems so moved and so very vulnerable, far from the tough andcocky Roxie she usually projects, and I feel an urge to throw myarms around her.
“Oh! We’re almost there,” sheexclaims and bursts the bubble. “Take the next exit. The store willbe on the other side of the freeway.”
