MAC
Girls are weird.
Guys get a bad rap for sending mixed signals, playing hot-and-cold, and acting differently from one day to the next, but Jessie Matthews put all that behavior to shame this morning. Girls play games too, apparently, and damn, if it doesn’t feel like getting the breath knocked out of you.
It seems it’s possible to have the greatest make-out session of your life one night, with chemistry off the charts, and then act like it meant nothing at all less than twelve hours later.
I wasn’t expecting her to go all doe-eyed around me today, batting her lashes or throwing herself into my arms, but I also wasn’t expecting her to act as if last night didn’t happen at all. It’s a little harsh, even for Jessie.
We’ve always had a playful dynamic in the way competitors do. Freshman year, when we basically shared a schedule, I noticed how hard she worked. The way she turned in assignments before anyone else, the praising comments professors gave her for her work. One day I nearly aced a test. It was the best I’d done since starting school, and I was proud. I’d been having trouble balancing soccer and school, so this felt like a victory. I asked Jessie how she did, thinking maybe I’d beat the teacher’s pet. She’d outdone me by two points. It knocked my confidence down a few pegs and fueled the competitive spirit in me. I studied harder and longer for the next test than I ever had. I missed practice and asked to be benched for a game just so I could study, and when I got a better grade than Jessie I almost did the same dance I do after scoring a goal.
Sparring with Jessie has always felt as heated as any match I’ve ever played, and I compete with her as often as I can.
Eventually, with all our classes, I got to know her. How witty and sharp she is, dishing out sarcastic comments as often as I do. So is it really a surprise I’ve developed a crush on someone as sharp and brilliant as her? I knew a year ago that I’d shoot my shot as soon as I could. And last night I got my chance, so I took it.
And,goddamn, it was…everything.
Except she just spent our entire Friday morning class acting like it was nothing.
I’m sure there’s a reason for it, and I would text her and try to meet for coffee and have a conversation, but right after she left the party I dropped my scroll. I dropped it right into a puddle of beer someone had spilled on the floor. The scroll was soaked and her number illegible.
I’m trying to shake off my interaction with her as I head toward the cafeteria for a snack when my phone starts to vibrate. I dig it out of my pocket.
Mom.
Smiling, I find a bench nearby and pop my headphones in before picking up.
“Hi, Mac,” my mom singsongs—one of the reasons I love when she calls. She’s like a blanket of joy, dampening whatever else I’ve got going on with her cheerfulness. “You’re on speakerphone with me and your father.”
So much for a cheerful phone call.I don’t usually talk to my dad in between visits home unless my mom is on the call, so it must be important. Some kind of announcement. Dad and I don’t have a bad relationship; we just have nothing to talk about unless we’re talking about sports, and since I quit soccer a year ago we’ve had even less to discuss. I don’t mind. The less I have to hear him wax poetic about the Baldwin name, the better.
“Hey, Pops,” I say. “Hey, Mops.”
“How’s my Mackers?” Mom asks.
My dad and I may not have a lot to talk about, but my mom and I have never had the same problem. In fact, she has a great relationship with me and all my brothers. She ended up with four sons and never complained once about being the only girl in the house, or that she didn’t have a daughter to dress up and play dolls with. My brothers and I all have something special with our mom, but for me it’s baking. My mom loves to bake, and she passed that love on to me. I’ll forever associate the smell of flour with her. Even now I text her pictures of all my bakes, and she helped me troubleshoot my sourdough starter a couple years back.
“Not too shabby. Sorry I missed your call. Everything okay?”
“Everything is great. We just wanted to share some news about Michael.”
“Is he okay?” I ask, concern growing in my mind.
“Yes, he’s fine,” my mom says.
“Oh.” Like dust in the wind, my concern is gone. “Why didn’t Michael just call?”
Michael is the second-eldest child in the family, and he’s spent the past seven years playing in the NFL. He got recruited right out of college. He and his college girlfriend got engaged last year. Maybe this has something to do with their wedding…
“So he’s retiring from the NFL,” Mom explains, ignoring my question. “He was accepted into a program. What’s it—?”
“Artists and writers’ program,” my dad cuts in, but he sounds annoyed. He doesn’t really believe in things like artists and writers’ programs, and I’m aware of how hard Mom must’ve had to work to convince him to be on the phone right now as a supportive presence.
“Yes! You know he’s always done photography on the side, and he’ll be going to Antarctica to do photography there. Amelia will be working there too, doing some travel writing.”
Antarctica? Damn.
Michael’s photography side business has landed him inNational Geographicmultiple times. He and Amelia are always traveling when his schedule allows, and his photography hobby turned semi-professional just a couple of years ago. Of course he’s leaving the NFL for something just as epic. This is what the Baldwin boys do.
