The absolute ache I feel in my chest deepens.Some days, I’m afraid to look in the mirror, afraid that there will be a literal hole right through me, where my heart used to be before my sister’s death ripped it out.
I’m on my own, in Target for the billionth time this week, trying to make decisions without any input from her.It’s a constant reminder she’s not here to pick out furniture or tell me what color shower curtain I should get.For the record, she’d have picked the peach ruffly one, but I go for something called "Bohemian Stripe" that has turquoise and orange and gold and black designs.It’s not my style either, but I figure the bright colors will break up the monotony of the apartment.Maybe I can fool myself into cheering up if I mix enough bright colors and bold patterns together.
And even though I’m tempted to get the one she would have picked, I can’t decorate my apartment for her.I have to start living for me.Isn’t that the point of all this?Isn’t that why Gram and Gramps kicked me out?
So here I am, in this new place that feels like a stiff pair of shoes a size too big, with nothing to do except sit with my own emotions, none of them good.I pick up my phone and open up ClikClak.The video of Baldpate Road is still getting views.I re-edit some of the footage and post another video.Next week, when the new office opens, I’ll have lots of great material.Until then, I’m trying to be creative with recycling footage from previous job sites.
I finish uploading and go out to the feed, relaxing back on my brand-new Bob-o-pedic couch.I glance up at my brand-new bookshelf, two shelves filled with my all-time favorites.I should read a book.It’s been months since I found solace in the words on a page.
Instead, my gaze drifts back to my phone because it’s easier than getting up and trying to figure out what I’m in the mood to read.I swipe a few times, barely processing what’s flashing before my eyes.An ad for concealer.Three videos in a row of people dancing to the same ’80s pop song.An ad for a weight loss supplement.A guy talking.I swipe up and then immediately pull the video back down to watch as my brain, lagging behind the speed of my fingers, processes the username.
TJ Doyle.
I’ve read his name so many times that it’s emblazoned in my memory.Holy shit, it’s the guy who usually cooks practically naked!How did I not connect his name with those videos before?Probably because I expected him to be doing something sports-y or with a ball.Right now, he’s fully dressed—I almost didn’t recognize him disguised in a shirt—sitting on a black couch, talking about his brothers.
But then it shifts into talking about having a sibling with cancer and this charity event he’s doing.
—with me and a few of my Buzzards teammates, then stay for the game as we look to crush the Wave on September first.
September first.That’s the game I said I was going to go to, way back when.Okay, it was only three weeks ago, but it seems like a different lifetime.I click on the link in his bio, and it directs me to the website.
"Meet Boston Buzzards superstars Brandon Nix, Landon Stubbs, TJ Doyle, and goalie Callaghan Entay!"
My heart starts to race.My hands grow clammy.I might actually be able to do something on Richie’s list.Like, for real.I can meet this guy, whom she undoubtedly had a crush on because he bears a striking resemblance to Chris Evans, and then I can cross it off.I don’t think I ever noticed his face before.Damn if my sister didn’t have a type.
After I fill out my name and email, the first question on the list is, "Do you have or have you had a sibling with a life-threatening, life-altering, or terminal medical condition?"
A big ole yupper on that one.
I keep getting prompted to fill out more.
Glioblastoma.Check.
Only sibling.Check.
I pay the fee of $250, which includes a commemorative T-shirt, a professional photo, and two tickets to the game.I don’t have anyone to take, obviously, but if there’s an open seat next to me, at least I won’t have to make small talk about a sport I know absolutely nothing about.I can probably bring a book to read.
What am I doing?This is stupid.I don’t even like sports.I go back to the website, only to see a huge red banner dashing across the page."EVENT SOLD OUT."
Did I get the last tickets?What if there’s someone else out there who really wanted them?My buyer’s remorse is immediate and strong, especially at that price point.
My phone dings with a confirmation email.I open it up, looking for contact information so I can try to get out of this.NO REFUNDS.
Dammit.
I open the itinerary and read.Registration begins at 11:30 with the event starting at noon.Then my mouth goes dry, and my heart sinks as I read what I should bring on Saturday.Cleats are preferred.Shin guards.Water will be provided.
Oh no.
I was so excited that I’d get to meet TJ Doyle that I didn’t process what the event was.It’s not just standing around, shaking hands, and taking pictures like at a comic con.It’s a soccer clinic.Like where they teach you how to play soccer.Maybe I should have paid attention to the fact that the whole stupid thing is called Soccer for Sibs.
Me, playing soccer.
That’s got to be the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.I couldn’t catch a ball if my life depended on it.I’ve never been to a sporting event in my life.I’ve never even watched one on TV.Once I got past middle school PE, I don’t think I’ve touched a ball.
And I paid two hundred and fifty bucks for this.
"You’re expensive even when you’re dead," I yell to the ceiling.Gramps always said Richie had champagne taste on a beer budget.When we were little, we had no idea what he meant by that.Now, I’d say it tracks.
