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Trevor stares, and stares, absolutely no emotion on his face. “Goddammit,” he finally huffs. Then, suddenly, he’s yanking the entire tablecloth off the table, knocking over everything. I watch in shock as plates, silverware, and even more water spills to the floor in loud clanks. Trevor covers his entire head with the tablecloth, looking like a cheap ghost Halloween costume.
“Trevor!” Miss D shouts; at the same time, I ask, “You good, bro?”
“Yes!” he responds, and I don’t miss how his hands cover his face, and is he… is he crying?
“Yes, you’re good, or—”
“Yes! You can marry her!” He removes the tablecloth completely, revealing his tear-stained cheeks and red, raw eyes. He glares at me, a finger pointed between us. “And if you ever make me cry like that again, I’ll end you.”
I laugh, relief washing through every inch of me. “Noted.”
“So when do you plan on proposing?” Miss D asks, bringing my attention back to her.
“Soon,” I reply. “And I’m going to need your help.”
AVA
TWO WEEKS LATER
“Have a good summer!” one of my classmates calls out from across the quad.
“You too!” I wave back, not bothering to tell her that I’ll be here most of the summer, taking classes to try to get ahead. Turns out, I have no idea what I want to do with the rest of my life. This realization came to me halfway through my senior year. I thought I wanted to study criminal justice, but where that led, I didn’t know.
Given my past life, I’d never really been one to experience FOMO (Fear of Missing Out), but when I tell you I wept on what should’ve been my graduation day, I mean it. I cried into my pillow, snot leaking out of my nose, and poor Connor had to walk in on it. He’d stopped at the bedroom door, looked around, then back at me. I could tell he wanted to run, but it’s not in my boyfriend’s nature. Good or bad, he’s by my side. Always. Just like he was then. You can picture it now, right? Connor Ledger—all six-foot-six of professional NBA player, consoling his lowly college non-graduate girlfriend by holding me in his arms and literally rocking me like a baby. We’d already spoken about my future, about my fear of not knowing what the hell I was doing with my life, and his response—bless him—was so simple it almost made me laugh. Almost. “So, keep working on finding out,” he’d said.
Unlike me, Connor was lucky enough to know what he wanted; fortunately for him, that goal was also his passion. I’m not saying he didn’t work hard for it, because Lord knows he did. He worked so hard it almost broke him numerous times, but he never gave up like I’ve wanted to—multiple times.
“Time isn’t a problem,” he’d told me then. “And neither is money.”
Both were true. Connor had a four-year contract with the Charlotte Hornets. Considering he was probably the highest caliber player on the lowest salary in the entire league, it was unlikely they would trade him any time soon. Besides, he didn’t need their money. He had plenty of his own, thanks to his late maternal grandma. And, of course, he had no issues spending that money on me, on an education that might be wasted. When I’d told him this, he’d scoffed, said that I’d supported him for five years, getting him to where he is, so the least he could do was give an iota of that same support in return.
So, I decided to take some random classes until I found something that sparked magic inside me. I haven’t found it yet, but I’m sure I will. Connor has faith in me, and that’s what drives me forward.
Speaking of Connor, I spot him at our usual meeting place, and though I can’t actually see him, I know he’s there somewhere. I keep telling him he doesn’t have to meet me on campus when he’s free to do so, but he insists. It was bad enough when he was a star Duke Blue Devil, but NBA status is a whole other level. A small crowd surrounds him while he takes pictures and signs autographs, and the smile that tugs on my lips is entirely natural.
I know a part of him hates this attention, but an even more significant part of him appreciates it. As for me, I’ve always known Connor as two different people—the baller side: confident, proud, and sometimes cocky. Then there’s the side of him he reserves only for our families and me: awkward, anxious, and introverted.
Both of them are real.
And all of him has my entire heart.
He smiles to the side, his head dipping as he signs something in front of him. I know that smile, that smirk. He can sense me moving toward him, and I wonder if he feels what I feel—the sudden increase in pulse, the excitement coursing through my veins. Five years of being his, and this feeling of anticipation just to be with him is still all-consuming. His mouth moves, saying, “Last one, guys, sorry.”
He takes a picture with a girl whose eyes drink him in, and for a second, just one, I wonder what would leave less evidence: finding her car and cutting her brake lines or putting her tiny-ass body through a woodchipper.
Hello, intrusive thoughts, go away.
I don’t have to do either because Connor takes the picture, his hands an inch from actually touching her like he always does when he takes pictures with females, and then he smiles down at her—fake as fuck—and says, “My girl’s here. I gotta go.”
The small crowd around him parts like the Red Sea as he turns toward me, his smile all for me. He waits until I’m right in front of him before taking both my hands in his and kissing me quickly. “How was your last day, baby?” If it were up to him, the kiss would be longer, with tongue, until the taste of me lingered on his lips for hours afterward. I know, because he’s told me so. Personally, I like to keep a low profile. It’s hard enough being a college student while your boyfriend—Connor Ledger—is… well, Connor fricken Ledger.
Weeding out the real versus fake attempts for friendships is tough. Add dodging glares from judgmental girls about how Connor could “do so much better,” and some days, I don’t even want to get out of bed.
First-world problems, sure, but they’re problems nonetheless.
I have to remind myself that these people—they don’t know me. And they don’t know us. They have no idea what we’ve been through to get to where we are.
Besides, there’s a reason why Connor still comes to campus to walk me back to our apartment whenever he can. He thinks there’s a Mister Steal-Your-Girl lurking around every corner, and I’m their target. Hilarious. And adorable. And completely false.
