Page 40 of Wildflowers and Wide Receivers

So her parents used to take her to the beach for vacations. I wonder how often they went? Were they visiting someone? Did they always go to the same place? If so, where? Come to think of it, I don’t even know where she’s from. And it’s this thought that makes me sad. I want to know this girl. I wish I’d had the past two and a half years to get to know her. Instead, we’re exactly the same as we were the night we met. Strangers.

Taking another sip of my water, I glance over at her. So beautiful. “You know, for as often as I think about you, I really don’t know anything about you.”

“You think about me?” she asks, surprised.

Behind our sunglasses, we stare at each other.

“Sophie.” I state her name in a way that makes her know that not only am I serious but it should be obvious.

Her cheeks turn pink, and I’m certain it’s not because of the heat.

“Yes, I think about you. But I’m not really sure what I’m even thinking. Obviously, I had no idea that you were a surgeon—which is incredible, by the way—but it’s all the rest of your life that I don’t know. I don’t know where you’re from, what your family is like, what religion you are, if you like sports or politics, what your favorite food is, or even what your hobbies are. We certainly weren’t talking about life goals the night we met.” I let out a deep, disappointed breath. “I don’t know. I just find myself thinking about this amazing girl I met . . . and regret what it could have been.”

Was that too much? I don’t know. But it’s the truth. There’s no sense in me denying that I want this girl. I’ve wanted her for a long time.

She stretches her legs out in front of her and digs her toes in the sand. I want to watch her, to see the expressions on her face as she thinks about what I’ve just said, but I can’t. Being vulnerable is not something that feels good. Instead, I watch the water past Vivi. It’s so blue green today, and the waves are just enough. There really isn’t a prettier beach in the world.

“Italian. That’s my favorite food.”

Italian. With just this one tiny detail, I suddenly feel lighter and like I won the lottery. I know this reaction is stupid, but it’s happening.

“Good to know,” I tell her, trying to remain calm and remember every Italian place in Tampa I’ve ever been to so I can offer to take her.

“Actually”—she cuts off my thoughts—“to be more specific, it’s pizza. Pizza is my favorite food. I love all kinds of pizza, but no anchovies.”

This definitely narrows things down. Together, if she wanted, the three of us could make it a challenge to find the best pizza in the Tampa Bay area.

“No anchovies, noted.”

She takes a sip of her water, too, and after a long moment, she says, “I think about you, too.”

Heat rushes to the surface of my skin, the hair on the back of my neck stands up, and with this confession, if I was alone, I would fist-pump the air.

She. Thinks. About. Me. Too.

I turn to look at her and memorize the details of the side of her face. There’s the line of her jaw, the shape of her nose, and the tiny diamond stud in her ear. She’s so beautiful that it hurts to look at her.

“You want to know something funny?” she asks, turning to face me too.

I don’t answer. I just keep looking at her. Tiny hairs are blowing around her face from the Gulf breeze, and even though we’re in the shade, her freckles are getting darker.

“I don’t really know much about me anymore, either.” Sadness blankets each word, and I hate it. I also don’t understand it.

“What do you mean?” I frown. This doesn’t sound funny to me.

She sighs and peels the label off her water bottle. “This last year, I’ve kind of just gone through the motions. I’ve spent fourteen years trying to accomplish my goal, and now that I have, I don’t know what to do with myself. I go to work and then go home. I’m not even where I thought I’d be.”

I understand what she’s saying about working for so long for one goal, but I don’t understand not having that feeling like it can end. Playing football, it’s a constant worry that I might somehow not make the active roster, but at the same time I thrive under the pressure of the push. I’m not sure what I’ll do when that push is gone, like what she’s talking about. I hate that she’s experiencing this.

“What about Pilates? I thought you did that with Camille several nights a week, and what happened with that guy you said you were seeing?”

“I do go to Pilates. I’ve been trying to find fun new things to do, but I’m not sure that it’s working. As for Isaac . . .” Her toes dig into the sand again, and she lets out a harsh laugh. “He’s a nice guy, but he wasn’t the one for me.”

My breath catches in my throat. Is she saying what I think she’s saying?

“What was wrong with him?”

She glances at me. “Nothing. But according to him, I was using him as a place filler.”