Page 50 of Made Better Together

EDEN: And it’s not a Saturday, yet you’re still messaging.

CONNOR: A new era.

EDEN: :)

CONNOR: How’s your week? Do we feel safe now to make plans?

EDEN: Let’s go for it. LOL

EDEN: Classes start today, and I’m drowning in stuff to do through my game on Thursday.

EDEN: Maybe Friday? Saturday I should lay low because we have another game on Sunday.

CONNOR: Dinner on Friday?

EDEN: Sounds perfect :)

CONNOR: I’ll figure out a place.

CONNOR: Also, maybe we should graduate from DMs into texts? Here’s my number. [sends phone number]

EDEN: Oh yeah. Texting you mine now.

[one minute later]

CONNOR: Officially saved in my phone :)

Adate with Connor. Finally on the calendar.

Even though it’s going to be another thing to balance this week, I’m so ready. After all the shifts in schedules and obligations, we’re officially going to hang out.

Hang out, or go on a date? Huh. I guess I don’t know exactly. But I don’t have any sense from him that he’s going to play me or ghost. And he’s asked to take me to dinner. At an actual restaurant. That’s decidedly not a twenty-two-year-old version of Netflix and chill.

A chime on my phone goes off before I settle the debate.

First day of senior year!

I was so excited when I typed that reminder in my calendar in June. Now the notification makes my anxiety fly, pulling me out of my hazy thoughts of Connor. I’m about to have even more to do, with a schedule loaded with homework.

A schedule with four classes: Advanced Sociology, Art History, Genetics, and my senior capstone seminar.

The classes themselves have me excited. I love to learn.

But unlike many collegiate athletes going pro, my grades matter all the way until graduation. Because if I’m going to delay medical school to play soccer like I’m leaning toward, schools will look at all four years closely whenever I do apply. Maintaining my straight-A track record is key.

Argghhh.

Still, like a good girl, at ten I head into my “Art History: Major Moments” class and plop down into a chair. Here we go, senior year.

“Hi, is this seat taken?”

I turn around at the question and see it’s Jake Tuttle who’s asking. A hockey teammate of Greg’s, a fellow senior and reputedly a good guy. I wouldn’t know, because we’ve rarely spoken before.

All six-foot-four of his hulking hockey frame forms a shadow over me.

“No, it’s fine. Take it.”

“Thanks.” He slides into the desk next to mine, giving me an opportunity to study his face for the first time, well, ever.