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“When was the last time you played football?”
She smirks. “I’m a Beck, baby. Soccer is in my blood.”
I grin back. I know she’s doing this for me, and it makes her bravado even hotter. “I didn’t think Becks called it soccer.”
“I’m adapting to the local culture.” She dribbles a few yards away. I actually have no idea if Sophia has ever played soccer before, so I’m impressed by her ease. Maybe an aspect of it is intrinsic, just like she teased. “First to ten?”
“Sure.” I’d agree to anything she suggests, whether soccer is involved or not.
It’s a perfectly crisp New England fall day. Leaves litter the grass, crunching with each step, the sun’s warmth the perfect complement to the slight bite to the air.
Sophia starts dribbling, her blonde hair streaming behind her like a flag.
I let her score first, and a quirk of her lips tells me she knows that. How well she plays doesn’t matter to me. I would have no idea how to manage any of the settings on her fancy camera. It’s enough—more than I ever expected—that she’s on this field with me. That she’s making this effort because she knows I love this game, even though it’s always represented different things to her.
Soccer saved me. It suffocated her.
But I think that, maybe, she views it a little differently now. There’s no sign of boredom or resignation on her face as we run up and down the grass chasing after a worn checkered ball.
Just like my view of the park we’re in is shifting. Instead of desolation, I see resilience. I see how far I’ve come from the little kid who spent so much time here. I’ve played in the important stadiums I always dreamed of. But I also came back here. I didn’t forget about this place.
And seeing how far you’ve come is much more astounding when you’re standing in the spot where you started.
THIRTY-NINE
SOPHIA
Will’s mom is wonderful.
I wasn’t sure what to expect, based on what little I knew about her. Since Will’s trip here following Tripp’s accident, they’ve kept in regular communication. Discussions about his brother’s recovery have filled what used to be silence, but they don’t just talk about Tripp. I’ve heard Will mention football to his mom. Places around Kluvberg. Me.
Delilah is warm and welcoming and curious, asking me endless questions about myself as we eat the meatloaf she made for dinner. It’s Will’s favorite, apparently, and I’ll have to remember to ask her for the recipe because it’s a hell of a lot better than the spaghetti I cooked for him. She’s worked in the same job as a secretary at a dentist’s office since before her sons were born, she tells me, but always had a passion for art.
As soon as she finds out I’m a photographer, that leads into a whole other discussion. I’m expecting Will to look bored, but there’s a small smile on his face as he squirts ketchup on his dinner and listens to his mom and me talk.
Delilah invites me into her studio after we finish dinner, which turns out to be her bedroom. Will opts to stay in the kitchen and clean up.
“I usually keep all this more organized in the spare bedroom,” she tells me. “It’s a little scattered right now.”
“You didn’t have to move all this,” I say, feeling guilty for the effort she’s going through to host us. Even though the room is small enough that it was probably necessary. We barely fit our suitcases in there as it is.
“Nonsense. I loved doing it. Love having Will here. And you, of course.”
I smile in response. It’s obvious to me how much his mother loves him, and I hope it’s something Will is starting to see again as well.
Delilah shows me a few sketches that look like they’re of the inside of this house. A chair. Vases filled with flowers. Bowls of fruit. A park—called Boston Common, she tells me. The last piece of paper she hands me is a drawing of her two kids.
I recognize a younger Will immediately with a smaller kid who must be Tripp beside him. I haven’t met Will’s brother yet. We’re going to visit him at the rehabilitation center where he’s recovering tomorrow. But I can easily see the similarities between the two of them—the dark hair and the cheeky smiles they share.
“This is incredible,” I tell Delilah. “You’re very talented.”
“It’s just a hobby,” she replies, her cheeks turning pink.
Words I’ve said before.
“I mean it, Delilah. There must be some galleries in the city. You should bring a few of these by some of them. I’m sure they’d be interested.”
“Maybe,” she says in a way I think means she won’t. And that’s okay. Maybe a hobby is all she wants—needs—this to be.
