Page 280 of Seasons of Love
When we end the call, I find myself in that weird state where I’m not sad but also not happy. Sappy?
Every day I walk into the school to coach the cheerleading team, my focus is on them. I want to teach them all the lessons I learned as a cheerleader.
Even when my trust was broken, and even when I was broken, I still learned something. Sometimes the lessons were painful, but the most genuine smiles come from those who have lived to appreciate the moments that made them smile.
And if there’s anything Bubble can do, it’s smile.
I grab my three scarves and wrap them around my neck before I put my coat on to leave.
Past Bubble was a super-genius for saving a Shaabiyat to have later, and Present Bubble is going to run home to have a warm bath before indulging in the sweet Lebanese dessert.
Thank god for sugar and baking blogs.
Once again, thoughts of Coach fill my mind. I wonder if he’s tried the Shaabiyat and what he thought of it.
I’d bet my Sailor Moon keychain he’s a cream man. Licking it all clean before eating the pastry.
And just like that, I have an erection.
Great.
3
COACH
The oven dings as I turn the TV to the sports channel.
Pizza, beer, and watching football on TV after winning the Thanksgiving game with my team this morning. It can’t get any better than this.
I put a pizza slice on a plate and head back to the living room, hoping to catch the rest of the Bears vs. Lions game.
I turn the heat up a bit and sit on the couch, resting my feet on the coffee table.
The pizza is adequate. Not the best I’ve had, but considering I can’t cook for shit and didn’t set the kitchen on fire, it does the job.
I can’t help laughing at myself because I’m hitting all the bachelor stereotypes in a single afternoon. Then again, I never had the chance to be a bachelor or do whatever the hell I wanted.
I take a swig of the beer and finish the slice of pizza, reaching out for another one.
The doorbell rings, and I do a double-take. I’m not friendly enough with anyone in Windsor that they’d stop by my place. I don’t think anyone at the school knows where I live.
I mute the TV and go to the front door. Even before I have a chance to react to the presence of my unexpected visitors, I’m enveloped by my mom’s slim but strong arms and familiar floral perfume fills my senses.
“Mom. Dad. What are you doing here?”
I kiss the top of her head and let her go. My dad gives me a one-arm hug and a pat on the back as he comes inside before I close the door to keep the cold out. He’s not a touchy-feely person. My mom has always done all the hugging and cuddling for both of them.
“Well, we couldn’t let you spend Thanksgiving on your own, could we?” mom says, walking in front of me as if she’s been to this place before.
She gasps at the sight of my pizza—minus one slice—and beer on the coffee table.
“Riley John Dempsey, don’t tell me this is your Thanksgiving dinner.”
Oh, how she loves to full-name me. I look at my dad for help, but he’s conveniently distracted by the plain walls of my mostly bare house.
“Mom, I had a game this morning, and I live alone. Besides, you know I can’t cook.”
“Jeff, go get the stuff we got. I told you we were going to need it,” she says to my dad, who knows the drill ingrained by almost fifty years of marriage.
