Page 92 of You Again

I’m going to.

I peer down at my watch. She’s at Callum’s game.

Maybe Zev would want to join me for an afternoon of soccer.

My heart leaps with the rightness. Because that’s exactly what I want to do.

Me: Hey, are you working today?

Me: I’m going to a soccer game. You should come.

I wait, but he doesn’t reply.

Maybe he is at work.

Me: I’ll buy you a ticket and either text it to you or leave it at will-call. If you’re able, come!

I’m not sure why my nerves are bouncing around like jumping beans—the man literally told me he loves me. But then he was under the influence of an entire bottle of children’s Benadryl.

Months ago, Fran told me there was always a seat for me next to her at Callum’s games. Back then, I had no desire to go to a busy soccer stadium filled with strangers. Today, I want to be here. I want to tell her about Zev. I want her to meet Zev. I just need to buy a ticket to get in. Then I can find my seat next to Fran.

It feels like a miraculous switch in emotion. One I am certain I owe to Zev. I’m still going to be anxious but I can do this.

I walk up to the ticket counter, hoping the Red Tails aren’t sold out today, and buy the two cheapest tickets available. The woman hands me two paper tickets. I peer around and see will-call is just at my left.

I walk over and wait for my turn at the counter. “Hi, can I leave this for a friend?” I hold up one of my upper-level tickets.

“Hey! Rosalie,” the man behind the counter says with a smile. “How’s it going?”

Panic rises in my gut. I don’t know this man. There is nothing familiar about his face. But I’ve met him at some point. I shove down my need to vomit and pretend. “I’m… good. Thanks. Um—” My eyes drop to his name tag. “Dave,” I say with a false grin, my heart running a mile a minute. “A man might pick this up. He’ll give you my name. Does that work?”

“Sure thing.”

I clear my throat and nibble on my inner cheek. “Do you need my name?”

He laughs, then writes my name—first and last—on a sticky note. He takes my extra ticket from the slot in the glass separating us and sticks the note with my name onto it.

I run a hand over my sweating neck. “Um, Dave, remind me where Fran sits.” I’m assuming this man knows my friend, that she’s the reason Dave and I are acquainted.

“Always the same. Down in front, center field. Section D. It’s right next to the tunnel the team runs out of. Has it been that long since you’ve been to a game?”

I force out a laugh. “It’s been a while.” Like, never in my mind.

I step away from friendly Dave and send Zev one more text.

Me: Give will-call my name. But ignore the seat and row on the ticket. I’ll be in section D, in the very front row. Come find me!

Wow, I am practically begging this man to join me. He hasn’t even seen my messages yet. Dang. He must be working.

I’m minding my own business, following the arrows to section D, when⁠—

“Miss Conrad!” A young girl, maybe nine or ten, waves at me from across the concourse. She knows my name. She’s calling me “Miss.” But I’ve never seen her before.

I’m still two sections away from D.

See? This is why I moved. This is why I don’t go out.

The girl is with a man who I assume is her father. He grins a knowing grin, as if he is acquainted with me, too. Great.