Page 27 of The Striker
Cecilia: See you there. *Heart emoji*
Heart emoji? Since when does Cecilia use emojis?
“Making plans?” My tone is casual, but I don’t think I mask my interest enough because Cecilia darkens the screen on her phone and shoves it back into her bag.
“Just lunch.”
I consider that and the person she’s having it with. There’s only one Adriana I know personally. It’s not an uncommon name, so there’s no reason for me to jump to conclusions, but I am. There’s a good chance whoever Cecilia is talking to is someone I don’t know, but the knot in my stomach is telling me otherwise. That her Adriana and mine are one and the same.
And if that’s the case, Adriana Aguirre and I are going to have some words.
7CECILIA
Idon’t know what I expected when I agreed to grab lunch with Adriana after class. Some part of me assumed it’d be awkward. Mostly because of me. But it hasn’t been awkward. It’s been … nice.
“What year are you?” she asks, dipping a fry into some ketchup before popping it into her mouth.
“Junior. You?” I ask, taking a bite of my own food. I used to come here all the time. The Wolf Den was a popular hangout for the cheer squad and for most of the athletes at PacNorth. From the look of things, it still is.
The restaurant is packed with several students standing around their tables since there aren’t enough chairs. Not that anyone really cares. The food is good and relatively cheap, and when you’re a college student, you can’t afford to be picky. Also, the bartender rarely cards. A perk if you’re an underclassman and want a drink with friends. Not that I drink anymore.
“Same.”
“Any plans after graduation?” I ask.
She pauses and thinks about it. “Not really,” Adriana says. “Get a job, most likely. Maybe move out of Richland. I haven’t given it much thought.” She takes a bite of her burger and adds, “I’ll probably move, though.”
“Where will you go?” It feels weird to think about leaving Richland. It’s always been my home. But I won’t lie and say it doesn’t have an appeal. If I lived somewhere else, I wouldn’t have to worry about running into Austin. Not on campus and not around town. My parents would still be here, so of course I’d come and visit, but some separation could be good for us. Dad could focus more on work. Mom could host more of those charity functions she enjoys.
“I haven’t really thought about it. But a move would be good for my parents.” The way she phrases that. Good for her parents. It’s weird. Wouldn’t she be moving for herself? I know I would be.
“Do you have a good relationship with them?” I’ve always been close with mine. I don’t tell them everything. Obviously. If they knew about this past year, it would destroy them. But I know they love me. That’s never been a question.
Adriana shrugs. “It’s not bad, but it can feel … strained. They don’t always know how to act around me.” She shrugs again. “That’s more of athemproblem than ameone, but they love me the way parents should. It would make their lives easier if I moved away, so I guess I should plan on doing that after graduation. I’d like to make their lives easier if I can.” Her smile is wistful but the way she says it, so matter of fact, like her parents would be happier with her gone, it makes me sad for her. Not that she seems upset at all while she’s talking. Just very matter-of-fact.
“What about you? Do you and your parents get along?”
“Yeah. They hover, and that can be annoying. But for the most part, they’re alright.” Mom is a stay at home wife, so she was always there when I needed her growing up. Dad is in politics. He’s Richland’s Mayor, and he’s always been the type to work long hours, but he’d drop everything if I called and said I needed him. They both would.
“Did they hover as much before the suicide attempt, or was it mostly just after?” she asks.
The hand with my burger freezes midway to my mouth, and my eyes widen as I register her words. Setting my food down, I stare at her with what I’m almost sure is a what-the-actual-fuck expression. Did she seriously just ask me that?
I swallow hard, trying to push past the lump in my throat. I’ve never had someone refer to what I did so … casually.
My hand shakes as I reach for my water. Fuck. I put down my glass, steal my breath, and try again.
“I’ve made you upset,” she says, tilting her head to the side as though to study me. “Why?”
She sounds genuinely curious, like she doesn’t know why bringing up my previous suicide attempt would upset me.
“I don’t like talking about what happened.” I push my plate aside, my earlier appetite now gone.
“How are you supposed to move past it if you don’t talk about it?”
“I do talk about it. It’s just not something I casually bring up with people.” Especially people I barely know.
Her eyes bore into mine until I fold and avert my gaze.
