Page 160 of These Secret Years

But I can’t read her mind. “What?”

Her hand cups my face, and she looks directly into my eyes. “You know what.”

But I don’t. The only thing that could ever make me unhappy is losing someone I love. Or, maybe, temporarily, not getting into the NFL. But even I think I would get over that. It’d be humiliating for sure, but as my father always loved to say, I do have options, and before yesterday, I was a pretty optimistic person.

My frustration is back, eclipsing the sadness for a moment and giving me a reprieve from all the tears. “No. I don’t know. If I’m good enough—if I’m better even—then why wouldn’t I be happy doing what I want to do—what I’ve always wanted to do?”

She sighs, dropping her gaze and the hand on my face as she sits back on the couch. In that same moment, my phone buzzes in my pocket, and I dig it out. Sullivan’s picture is on the screen. In the photo, he’s sitting in the window seat, tablet balanced on his folded knees, and he’s smiling for the camera. Not a bright smile, but a beautiful one.

My mom lets out a small whimper. “I recognize him.”

And then it clicks.

Not looking away from her, I answer the call. “Hey.”

“I’m in Iowa,” he says. “Please clap.”

“That was fast.”

“My ass is sore from sitting already. I should get one of those foam cushions for these trips.”

“Did you just call to give me that update?”

“I figured you’d want to know.”

My eyes still fixed on my mother’s, I say, “I have your location on my phone, remember?”

Her brows rise slightly.

Sullivan chuckles. “Right. Well, if you see me stopped at one place too long, tell me to get my ass back on the road.”

“Your sore ass.”

“My very, very sore ass.”

“I love you,” I say.

My mom’s lips press together, and more tears glisten in her eyes.

“I love you, too. I’ll call you from Michigan.”

“Call me whenever. Drive safe.”

“See you soon.”

“Bye.” I hang up and show her the phone and Sullivan’s picture before it blinks off the screen. “My boyfriend.”

She takes a shuddery gasp, and the tears spill again. She nods. “I know.”

Everything she’s said today falls shakily into place. “He’s from here,” I tell her. “Sunrise Point. He lives on the other side of town.”

“You go to school together?”

“We met the first week of freshman year.”

She inhales sharply. “That’s quite a coincidence.”

“He’s a music major. USM has one of the best fine arts programs. So maybe just lucky.”