Chapter 9: Rachel
The problem with deciding to "rejoin the world of the living" is that the world of the living doesn’t come with an instruction manual that says,Congratulations, you’ve decided not to become a reclusive cat lady before your thirtieth birthday!Here’s how: Step one: try to stand up.Step two: buy spandex shorts that you’ll never wear again.Step three: stop dwelling on TJ Doyle’s buns and what a total ass you made out of yourself.
I wish I had a step-by-step set of directions.Lacking that, I do what any socially awkward, grief-stricken woman would do.I reward myself for my bravery.Coffee and books.Maybe a little sweet treat, too.If I can’t handle people, I can at least handle carbs and paperbacks.
Instead of heading home, like I’m so tempted to do, I point my car in the direction Google tells me, toward an indie bookstore with the suspiciously optimistic nameAn Unlikely Story.It seems only fitting.Me, attempting to play soccer, is a very unlikely story.
I expect the business to be a tiny shop stuffed in a depressing strip mall, smashed in between a Chinese restaurant and a vape shop.Instead, I find a sprawling three-story building with a large front porch and gorgeous hardwood floors, and books for days.Is this heaven?No, it’s an indie bookstore.
Complete with a coffee shop.
It’s easy to pass the time in a haven like this.It’s so homey it feels like … home.For a little while, buried between row after row of stories, I feel like my old self; the one who would escape for hours—even days—in the pages of a novel.I pick up book after book, looking at the cover, reading the back, and then putting them down.Nothing is jumping out at me right away.To say I’ve been in a reading slump is an understatement.It’s hard to read about happily ever afters when your world is falling apart.Conversely, it’s hard to read about sad things when you’re practically drowning in your own grief.
I was the one always reading when we were growing up.Richie was too busy studying and playing sports to curl up with a good book.I spent much of my teens and early twenties curled up with a cozy romance rather than dating.I didn’t have a social life to get in my way, but I didn’t mind.The happy endings in my romance books never let me down the way real people did.
Richie was a late convert to romance books, but when she did, like everything else, it was go big or go home.In the last few weeks of her life, Richie couldn’t see the print well enough, so she had me read them to her.Her preference: the smuttier the better.I’m almost positive it was because of how embarrassed I got reading them.I believe it gave her great amusement to watch my face turn various shades of crimson while using words like folds and organ and slick and moist.
There were other words she delighted in hearing, but I can’t repeat them in polite conversation.
I offered to get her audiobooks, but she said my voice was more comforting.I call bull.Even as she was dying, she was still being a pain in the ass little sister.
My taste in books, like everything else with Richie, differed.I prefer the deep emotional connection of a couple falling in love.The push and pull of forbidden attraction.The rivals-to-lovers or opposites-attract.The witty banter that makes me kick my feet in delight.You know, the type of things writers dream up and put in their books that never quite happen in real life.
With the exception of my grandparents, I can’t think of a love story, filled with romance and longing, true soul mates and all that jazz, that exists outside the confines of the pages of a book.We romanticize books and movies because it doesn’t happen in real life.There is no prince on a white horse, ready to swoop in and solve all the problems.In reality, guys send dick pics in hopes of getting laid and then ghost you as soon as they do.Moms don’t want to be moms and follow random guys all over the place rather than staying with their kids.Sisters die.
Shit happens.
And I can say that with authority, considering my job.
So maybe a smushy romance is not what I need right now.I need something that is totally fictional so my brain doesn’t start thinking about happy endings for myself that will never come to fruition.I settle on an indie book calledSuper Serialthat’s described as a dark comedy thriller about a pastry-obsessed bounty hunter in a corporate-dystopian world.Sounds perfect.
I buy the book and head to the cafe, where a grilled cheese on white seems like it will hit the spot.You can’t go wrong with carbs and dairy.An iced coffee completes the meal.I’m surprised when I look up to find my cup down to the ice and the clock indicating it’s time to drive back to the stadium.
In spite of myself, this was a pleasant afternoon.Richie would be proud of me for stepping outside my comfort zone.I consider calling Gram to let her know where I’m going, but then I remember I’m still mad at her.It’s okay.I don’t need to share this day with anyone else.I’m doing it for me.
Well, I’m doing it for my sister, but that’s a detail I don’t need to focus on.
The stadium is massive, especially compared to the facility next door where the event had been.Even though the calendar has just flipped to September, the heat and humidity are more like August.I’m sweating like a stuck pig.I feel my throat tighten a little, and my blood begins to pound in my ears at the thought of being shoved in like a sardine with thousands of people.How many does this place hold anyway?
Over 65,000.I should not have looked that up.I’m definitely going to have a panic attack.But when I get inside, there are fewer people than I would have thought.Helpful ushers point me in the direction of my seats.The bottom two tiers are packed, but the uppermost seating is empty.I bet those are sold out for football games.
My panic starts to ebb as I take in the sight.
I’m in section 108, row 3.If I liked sports, these would be fantastic seats, located right behind the Buzzards’ bench.I look around and see that most of this section and the one next to us are filled with people wearing the Soccer for Sibs T-shirts.I left mine in my car.
I settle in and pull out my book.Sweat pours off me.It takes me a little while to be able to tune out the crowd and focus on what I’m reading.Several times, I’m startled out of my own world when the crowd erupts into massive applause and the PA system blares, "GOOOOAAAAAL!"The scoreboard at one end of the field reports that the Buzzards are winning.
The people sitting next to me are super into the game.It’s an older couple, probably in their sixties, with two men whom I’d guess to be their sons, if the familial resemblance is any indication.I can’t imagine what it’d be like to be a grown adult and spend time with my parents.In theory, it could happen, but I haven’t talked to my mom since the funeral.Every few minutes, the family next to me is on their feet, yelling and screaming in thick Boston accents.There’s been a lot of cheering from them, so they must be happy with whatever’s happening on the field.
The mom looks over at me, book in hand, and smiles."Soccer not your cup of tea?"
My face flushes, and I hastily close my book, my finger still caught between the pages."Not really."
"Why are you here then?"one of the sons asks."And why did you pay so much for these seats if you weren’t even going to watch the game?"
I open my mouth to tell them about the whole charity event when something on the field draws their attention.Several whistles sound as the crowd boos.I look to see a player being helped to his feet by a teammate.I’m pretty sure he was one of the ones at the event today.I don’t know his name.The referee places the ball in front of him, holding his hand up in the air.The player backs up, takes a few steps forward, and launches the ball with his foot.It sails down almost half the field and right over the outstretched arms of the goalie.
The entire stadium erupts in a cacophony as the now familiar "GOOOOAAAAAL!"echoes through the stadium.The player pumps his arms as he runs to a teammate, jumping on him.The crowd begins tossing their hats onto the field, chanting "Hat trick!Hat trick!"
