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The digital numbers tick away, rising right along with my anxiety levels. There have been good moments in Glenmont. But mostly, this town represents a division between me and the one person I hate to be separated from. Coming here has never felt like coming home, just an inescapable inevitability.
The rivalry between Glenmont and Alleghany is alive and well. Maybe stronger than ever. Everyone who said Maeve and I were idealistic to think our relationship would ease any animosity was right, for the most part. Our friends and family came around a while ago. Most of our towns never did, and never will. At least half of the cars I’ve passed since crossing the town border have hadBeat Alleghanybumper stickers affixed to the back. Sports divide just as decisively as they unite. And when it comes to small lake towns in Connecticut, that division is a permanent tradition Maeve and I didn’t have a chance of overwhelming.
We’ve lasted a lot longer than anyone thought we would, and that’s a victory in itself. It’s also a lesson—the world changes you far more than you’ll ever change the world.
Philosophical musings pair well with the unfamiliar nerves in my stomach. Both make me feel uncertain.
“Excuse me.”
Reflexively, I glance toward the source of the sound. The same man is still standing on the opposite side of the pump, now looking straight at me. I can guess what he’ll want to talk about, but I say “Yeah?” like I’ve got no idea. If my car wasn’t running on fumes, this definitely isn’t where I would have chosen to stop for gas.
“You’re Weston Cole, aren’t you?”
“I am.” I smile at him, wryly.Called it.“You a football fan?”
“I’m aGlenmontfootball fan.”
“I figured.”
The man eyes me suspiciously, like he was expecting more opposition to that statement. “San Diego, right?”
“Right,” I confirm.
I’m not expecting the fact that I’m now a professional football player to do anything to sway this guy toward looking at me with anything more inviting than a scowl, and he doesn’t disappoint. His expression stays stoic as he nods. Loyalty—the real, residual kind—isn’t impressed by clout or fame. Not that I have much of it—just more than the average twenty-two-year-old. Four years at Lincoln, several Bowl appearances, a solid showing at the Combine in February, and I was selected as a first-round draft pick for the San Diego Sharks.
“You headed out there soon?”
“Next week.”
The man nods, not looking like my travel itinerary is of any interest to him. “My wife is from the Bay Area.”
All I can come up with to say to that is, “Nice.” I was bracing myself for a more aggressive response.
The pump shuts off. I return the handle to its holder and screw the cap back on.
“Have a nice night.”
I only make it a few steps toward the car door before he speaks again. “Would you mind signing this?”
I turn around.
My expression must convey my surprise, because he shrugs before holding out the receipt the pump spit out. “Might be worth something one day.”
I scoff as I take the offered pen and paper, scribblingBeat Glenmontabove my signature in a small rebellion on behalf of the blue jersey I wore in high school. “It’ll be worth a lot more than something, soon.”
The man scowls when he sees what I wrote. But it’s weaker than it was before, lacking the same degree of animosity. It’s harder to hate up close.
“Thanks,” he mutters, managing to make the appreciation sound begrudging.
I nod before climbing back in my car. I respect him more, for not capitulating or acting like a fake fan to get on my good side and score an autograph.
The drive from the gas station to the Stevens’ yellow bungalow only takes a few minutes. I park along the curb, rather than pull into the driveway. In the time it takes me to turn off the car and climb out, Maeve appears.
It’s been nearly seven years since the first time I saw her, the summer after freshman year. I’ve seen her a thousand times since. But it still hits me square in the center of my chest, every damn time.
Maeve walks down the front steps wearing a light blue dress. It’s short-sleeved and justshort, and I know it will be the source of some complaints about being cold before the end of the night. June nights on the east coast are a long way from tropical.
She plays it cool for the first couple of steps, then starts to jog. It feels like milliseconds and days before her warm body collides with mine.
