I take a deep breath as I sit in front of the coaching staff at Northwestern. It’s considered the Ivy League school of the Midwest and one of the best football programs. I attended a seminar about the school and took an all-day tour of the campus. It’s beautiful here, right on the shores of Lake Michigan. I can’t help but wish Derek were here to say you can do this.
Derek. As much as I try to push the memories of us together to the back of my mind, I can’t. He’s become a part of me, whether he feels the same about me or not. When I close my eyes and think about him gently touching my face, running his hand through my hair, or just holding me because he knows I need to be held, I actually feel a calmness I haven’t felt since my mom left.
I want to fly to Texas, grab him, and tell him how much I want him to choose me. But if I do, I won’t be letting him choose his own path. I don’t want to ever feel like I forced or coerced him to be with me. He obviously wasn’t ready for a commitment, at least with me. I just want him to be happy. If he’s happy without me in Texas, I need to be okay with it.
Who am I kidding? I’ll never be okay with it, and I miss him so damn bad. He’s my best friend, the one who taught me that I’m worthy of being loved. He made me feel confident that my mom was the one who was losing out.
For the first time in my life, I actually believe it.
“While we’re impressed with your performance last year and you received a wonderful recommendation from Coach Bennett at Elite and Coach Dieter at Fremont, we’re just not ready to offer you any kind of assistance or a scholarship,” the coach says. “We have a lot of kickers to consider, Ashtyn. You’re on our watch list, but to be honest, there’s a bunch of players ahead of you and we want to be realistic. But we thank you for your time and interest in Northwestern. It’s a great school, and we’d love to have you as a student here.”
I nod, thank them for considering me, and the meeting is over in a matter of minutes. Once I’m back in the elevator on my way down to the first floor, a deep pang of sorrow settles into my chest at the realization that one door is closed.
They don’t think I’m good enough.
When the elevator opens, I hear a familiar cranky old lady say in a commanding voice, “I’m telling you that I don’t need an appointment with the coach! I need to see him now.”
Derek’s grandmother is wielding her umbrella like a sword in front of the doorman’s face. The woman looks ready to slice the doorman in two, or at least whack him on the head if she doesn’t get her way.
“Ma’am, it’s against policy to let you in the elevator without an appointment.”
“You are obviously a nincompoop when it comes to recognizing authority,” Elizabeth Worthington barks out, frustration and agitation laced in her voice. “Now get out of my way so I can see my . . .”
Mrs. Worthington lowers her umbrella and clears her throat the second she sees me. “Hello, Ashtyn.”
Just being in the same room with the old lady, even when she’s threatening someone, is supremely comforting. “Mrs. Worthington, what are you doing here?”
“This heathen doorman has vexed me to no end,” she says. She sighs in annoyance while she reaches into the purse hanging from her forearm and pulls out a monogrammed handkerchief. She dabs invisible sweat off her forehead.
It doesn’t escape my attention that she hasn’t answered my question. It’s a habit she obviously picked up from her grandson. Or maybe it’s hereditary, and they were both born with the trait.
But I’m not about to let her off the hook. “I thought you went back to Texas. What are you doing here?”
Mrs. Worthington places her handkerchief back in her purse and pulls out a clean one. “That, my dear, is a very good question.” She clears her throat again and says, “Quite honestly, Ashtyn, I heard you were here and I came back to be here for you. I’ve got a car outside waiting to take you home.”
Me?
She came here for me?
Nobody comes back for me. They leave me, just like my sister, my mom, and Landon . . . even Derek, the one person who mattered most. But this old, cranky lady with a bad attitude came back for me.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she orders.
“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice trembling.
The old lady pulls me aside and shoos the doorman away. She unfolds the clean monogrammed handkerchief and starts wiping tears from my face. “You’re just a complete mess, and, well, you’re pretty much hopeless and need guidance. I figure I’m the only one capable of turning you into a lady of any substance.”
I still her shaky hand as she wipes fresh tears falling from my eyes. “I love you, too.”
Her eyes are welling up as more tears stream down my face, but she blinks them back and composes herself. “Stop blubbering, because now you’re turning me into a mess and I won’t have it.”
“I’m sorry I called you a snob.”
“You didn’t call me a snob.”
“I thought it.”
She purses her lips and taps her umbrella on the ground like a cane. “Well . . . truth is, I probably am a snob. Now let’s get in my car and head back home, but first we need to eat lunch. I’m hungry.”
A limo is waiting outside for her . . . for us. I sit across from her and notice her smirking, that same smirk that Derek has when he’s being mischievous.
Later that evening, Brandi and Mrs. Worthington go out for dinner while I babysit Julian. After I put Julian to bed and am in my room talking to Victor about my interview at Northwestern, Julian comes in the room wearing his little pajamas with cartoon characters on them.
“I can’t sleep,” he says shyly as he stands next to my bed.
I hang up with Victor and look at my nephew. “Want to come sleep in my bed?”