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Is that thought brilliant or too terrible for words? It’s a question I can’t answer.
I just hope I don’t make her regret it.
CHAPTER 23
OLIVIA
“Will you just go and sit down?” my mother says, waving a wooden spoon at me. “Either sit down or come chop some of these carrots. Your pacing isn't helping anyone.”
“Sorry, Mom,” I say, turning on my heel to face the counter. I pick up a knife and my mother immediately deposits a huge bowl of carrots in front of me. I reach into the bowl to grab one and start peeling it, my mind still racing with worry, my feet still itching with the desire to move.
“Pacing isn’t going to make your friend come any faster.” Mom shoots me a wry look and I glare back at her. “I’m sure he’ll show.”
“I’m not,” I mutter. Miles isn’t unreliable exactly, but his reaction in the restaurant was weird, and I’ve barely seen him since then. There’s every chance he’s going to get cold feet and leave us all hanging.
“He’d better,” calls Dad from the dining table. “I made a whole list of questions to ask him. It’s not every day your daughter brings home a soccer player.”
“I’m not bringing him home!” I snap. “I’ve invited a friend over.”
“You did warn him that Daddy is maybe the country’s biggest soccer fan, right?” asks Mom, ignoring my outburst.
“I told him you were fans,” I say, deciding not to tell them that I deliberately avoided giving Miles the information that my father probably knows his statistics better than he does.
Dad’s been revising all week, watching old Canaries games on some weird sports website in preparation for giving Miles a good old grilling about tactical decisions and whatever. This isn’t exactly the way I thought a boy I brought home would get grilled, but I’ve also impressed upon my parents exactly how much Miles and I are not romantic. I'm just glad he hasn’t left any visible hickeys on my neck recently because that one would be awkward to explain.
Fortunately, I think they're all slightly too dazzled by the idea of having a soccer star in the house to have really thought through the fact that I'm bringing home a boy.
Not that my parents are like those really strict, really weird kinds of parents who monitor their kids every second of the day and think they have a right to dictate exactly what their kids can and can’t do. My parents have always encouraged me to be friends with whoever. But my dad does get protective of me, and the idea of him thinking there’s even a remote possibility that Miles and I are an item is more than a little concerning.
After all, Miles is pretty universally known as bad news.
I just hope he can behave himself tonight. My feelings for him might be more complicated than trying to understand the fine print of an insurance policy, but one thing is for sure — if he makes himself and me look stupid in front of my parents, or even so much as does one dumb or disrespectful thing, my feelings are going to cool off pretty quickly.
I’m just about getting into a good rhythm with the carrots, peeling and chopping them and dumping them in a pan, when the doorbell rings. I jump out of my skin, narrowly missing slicing the tip of my finger off. “He’s here!” hollers Dad like that’s not completely obvious.
But before I can even think of making a move for the door, Chris has already jumped up and run over. He flings the front door open with a massive grin and stares up at Miles, the foot or so of height difference doing nothing to dampen my brother’s look of awe.
“Oh, my God,” whispers Chris reverently, his mouth wide open. “You’re Miles Hamilton.”
“I am,” says Miles, grinning generously at my brother’s wide-eyed stare. “And you are?”
Chris’s mouth wobbles as though he’s forgotten completely how to talk. I sweep in to save my brother from his own idiocy. “This is Chris. He’s a fan.”
“I get you, kid,” says Miles with a wink. “Me too.” Then he looks at me and says, “Can I come in?”
“Of course.” I step aside and gesture him in. Chris scurries back away into the living room, and Miles steps into the house, looking all around at everything. As I shut the door behind us, I feel a surge of embarrassment as he takes it in, knowing he’s making inferences about everything, judgments.
“Come on through,” shouts my mother from the kitchen. “Come and make yourself at home.”
“Hey,” says Miles, smiling awkwardly at my mother as he steps into the kitchen, dipping his head a little in polite greeting. I never really imagined him to be the type of person to get intimidated by anyone, but here he is, standing in my parents’ kitchen, meeting my mother and looking like he’s about to get told off. He’s full of surprises.
Not one to be left out, Dad gets up from the table and wanders over in an approximation of casualness that’s fooling no one. I can practically see him vibrating in excitement.
“So, Miles,” says Dad. “Awesome goal the other day.”
“It was pretty cool, wasn’t it?” Miles says, humble as ever.
“Here, come and sit,” says Dad, ushering Miles to the table, seating him down facing the TV that is only allowed out on special occasions because Mom hates it when he tries to watch sports while we eat.
