13 - All Over Again

13

All Over Again

W hatever I thought about Isaiah's poetry before fell to the wayside.

Because what it has become is beyond my wildest fucking dreams. I practically throw myself back on the couch. It's not the one he gave me—the annotated one. That one is something I need to prepare for.

"Told you it was insane," Maazina says.

I glare at her, but her focus is fully on the cake pop in her hand. Practice this morning was brutal, especially considering I didn't look at my dad once, and we came here after to fully rot in my apartment. Sylvia is currently asleep next to me on the couch, and Vivian is stretched out on the floor watching Modern Family .

"You didn't say it was this bad."

Maazina raises a brow. "Well, considering the entire thing is about you, I would hope that I was not as emotionally wrecked as you currently are."

"That's such a good point," Viv muses, stretching her arms up in the air.

"I don't know why I thought reading these with you losers here was a good idea."

"We're here in case you feel the need to jump off any tall buildings." Maazina snorts.

Next to me, Sylvia rises from the dead. "So true," she says, hand in the air but eyes closed.

I roll my eyes but return to the book, which I'm only about halfway through. I've had to read every poem twice to digest them, and I'm sure there is more that I'm missing, but I haven't even opened the copy he gave me yet. Two nights ago, after I got back from his place, I flipped through it to see handwriting and tiny sticky notes on the inside and immediately shut it. So, it's currently sitting on the kitchen counter, waiting for me to grow a pair.

When I turn the page, I find the next poem titled "Seventeen" and immediately close it. The last two have been more about his life, about his brother, and the pressure of life, and I've taken in a lot, but I'm not ready for that.

I pick up my phone again, like I have almost every hour, searching for a notification I won't have. Like an hour ago, there's still no text or call from Dad. Hasn't been since we fought, and there won't be. I place it face down on the coffee table.

Viv clocks the actions. "All good?" I shrug. "You can talk to us, you know. In the four practices we've had since the game, you haven't looked at your dad once."

"It's not a big deal. You don't need to worry. It won't affect his coaching on you guys." I kick my legs out and head to the kitchen, rifling through my snacks.

"I'm not asking because I'm worried about his coaching."

"That's not what everyone thinks." Pretzels clank into a bowl. "It's not a big deal, okay? I don't want to make it a big deal. He's my dad, yes, but he's your coach. He's the team's coach."

It's not that I don't get along with all my teammates, because I do. Sure, they aren't my best friends in the whole world; they aren't Maazina or Sylvia or Viv, but I do love every single one of them. And what I overheard during practice wasn't mean, per say; it was just them discussing the idea of this being a distraction. The last thing I want to do is be a distraction.

"Dude, not to be like completely biased, but there is no way anyone on that team can call it favoritism." Sylvia sits up, running a hand through her long, black hair. "If anything, he makes it that much harder on you when he does get involved. For the most part, you know, he leaves it to Teller and Laurel, but when he doesn't…" She shakes her head. "I don't know how you do it."

I furrow my brows. "It's not that bad."

Maazina scoffs. "Maybe if he genuinely was just your coach, sure. Everyone gets critical now and then. But this has been your whole life, Aurora."

With a sigh, I join Viv on the floor, leaning my back against the couch.

It's not that Dad is evil. Or that he's overtly mean. Just continuous digs that have repeatedly dented my self-confidence. If I didn't feel confident about my skills, skills I built with my own hard work, if I didn't feel the way I did about the game, I would've quit. It was worse in high-school and college. After my regular practices or when I was home on breaks, we were back on the field. Making me do exercises he thought I could improve on. Throwing in back-handed compliments after reminding me how poor my left foot touch was, how poor my form was on a certain kick, and so on.

Now, it's all about what more I can do because it's never enough.

"It's been my whole life. I'm used to it," I say, my tone sharp enough that I hope it leaves no room for further conversation. I hate talking about my dad with them. If he wasn't their coach, it would be different, but he is. And despite my feelings, he's a good coach to all of them. My issues with him shouldn't matter.

We all have our things. The things we should open up about but skate around at times. This is mine.

"Well, we're here for you as your friends, not just your teammates, if you ever want to talk,"

I nod, my eyes glued on the TV. "I know. Thank you."

Maazina walks behind me and places a big kiss on the top of my head. "Love you, grumpy."

Maazina stalks to the kitchen, disappearing from view. I hear the quick patter of her feet from behind me and turn to look, only to find her standing directly in front of me, holding the book I've been avoiding. "What is this?"

I stare straight ahead. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Aurora, are you joking?"

"What? What is it?" Sylvia and Vivian are highly intrigued as Maazina fans through the book.

"Oh, my God, he wrote in it? This entire book is marked up, Aurora. The cover is different? This is an entirely different version. Oh, my fucking God." Maazina sits next to me in a dramatic fashion, holding up the poetry book like it's made out of gold.

And it is, but it's my gold.

I snatch it and hold it to my chest. "Stop. I haven't read it yet."

"Why not?"

"A girl can only handle so much at once, okay?"

Sylvia twists her lips. "Yeah, that's a good point."

I scratch my forehead. "And he's coming over later anyway, so it's just not a good time to read it. I'll be all gross and sensitive and—"

"Aurora, shut the fuck up. He's coming over? To your house?" Maazina looks shocked.

"Like you invited him?" Sylvia blinks, and Viv stares at me.

I throw my hands up, almost throwing the book in the process. "Yes. Invited. I invited him. We talked two nights ago."

"You bitch," Maazina exclaims. "And you didn't tell me?" Viv slaps her arm. "I mean us—you didn't tell us?"

"You have more energy than both my nieces combined."

"I take that as a compliment—thank you."

"I promise I will tell you all the details after tonight," I say in an attempt to appease them. Maazina stares me down with her eyes, the green shining through today, and makes a huffing sound.

"Fine, I accept those terms." She rests her head on my shoulder. Viv and Sylvia nod in agreement, and I exhale, finally free from the inquisition.

"Wait—"

"I will quite literally burst into tears if you ask me another question."

Maazina pokes my side. "It wasn't about you… It was about Isaiah." Helpless to do anything else, I laugh. "When is he coming over?"

"I think I said five."

The sun is still streaming through the windows, the AC blasting to combat the summer heat from seeping into my apartment. We've been rotting here most of the day, so I genuinely have no idea what time it is.

"Oh, boy," Viv muses.

"What?"

A buzz coming from my door answers my own question.

"No. It cannot be five."

Sylvia collapses face down onto the couch behind us, holding up her phone screen for us all to see. Five o'clock in big bright letters shine in all our faces. "Unfortunately, it is time."

A chaotic energy enters the room, one that makes it seem like we're all in college and our roommate's crush is coming over for the first time as pure panic ensues.

"Oh, my God, we get to meet him?" Sylvia's eyes brighten, and she claps her hands.

"Do we actually like him? Or are we still mad at him? Do we hate him on principle or…I need more information."

I press my palms to my temples. "Can we all just act as close to normal as we can get?"

Viv snorts, tossing her arm over Maazina, and that says it all. I take a quick glance in the large mirror leaning on the wall and decide the cropped t-shirt and biker shorts are good enough. As soon as I'm close enough, I press the button to let him up.

I turn around to find all three of them staring at me. "Sit down? Pretty please."

They chuckle but thankfully do sit on the couch right before he knocks at my door. I take three deep breaths before I open it. Isaiah appears with a tote bag over his shoulder, sunglasses hanging off the short sleeve button down he's wearing. Tattoos peek out between the panels of the shirt on his chest, and the pale green looks gorgeous against his brown skin. The tan shorts complement both colors and show off a majority of the tattoos on his legs. One leg is fully covered, and the other has ink placed sporadically.

All of it is hot. Unfairly hot. I-need-to-be-standing-in-front-of-an-industrial-fan hot.

Behind me, someone clears their throat and brings me back to the present.

"Hi, come in." I stand aside so he can enter. "These are a few of my teammates. I lost track of time."

Isaiah smiles. It's warm and gentle but still draws every eye to it. "Hi, everyone."

I stand by his side and point as I talk. "That's Sylvia, Maazina, and Vivian. They're with me on defense."

He shakes each of their hands, and when he's not looking, Sylvia fans herself and makes googly eyes. "It's nice to officially meet you guys. You all play wonderfully together from what I've seen."

"Thank you!" Maazina chimes, smiling brightly. "We're getting ready to head out, and we'll be out of the way."

Isaiah waves his hand. "Not at all. I can come back if you'd rather, Aurora."

Vivian steps forward, shaking her head. "That's not necessary, really. We've been here all day." He smiles and sets down the tote bag on the stool under the counter.

The girls pack up fairly quickly, sliding their shoes on. Vivian and Sylvia wait at the door, but Maazina pauses. "I was with Aurora at the restaurant when you read some of your work. I wanted to say I thought it was beautiful, really."

Isaiah dips his head. "Thank you, Maazina."

She smiles and then plops a kiss on my cheek. "Be nice to my girl," she says with a wave of her fingers that somehow looks slightly menacing directed at him.

"Get out." I point, and she laughs as she shuts the door behind them. I turn. "Sorry about that."

"Nothing to be sorry for. She's funny."

I stalk to the kitchen and stand across the counter from him. "She is. She's one of the happiest people I know."

Which is deeply ironic considering the shit she's been through. Despite it, she walks around with her head held high. Like the sun is out shining just for her. Most days, I don't know how she does it, but she gets up and keeps moving forward.

"Happy people love you."

I snort, pouring him some water. "Yeah, must be the raging pessimistic attitude they can't channel on their own."

Isaiah shakes his head. "You're not pessimistic, and you know it. I'm sure she does, too. You always wanted everyone to think that of you and apparently still do."

"When I invited you over here, it wasn't to be psychoanalyzed."

He pouts. "Where's the fun in that?"

There's a lightness to the air today. I'm all cried out and having everything—or almost everything—out in the open makes it seem a bit easier to navigate.

"I was thinking we could just start this whole friendship thing again," I say, staring at the marble pattern in the countertop. "Have dinner, watch a movie, or something?" Even saying it out loud makes me feel slightly ill.

"Friendship sounds nice." The corner of his mouth turns up, and my cheeks heat for no reason. "Whatever you want that sounds good. What did you have in mind for dinner?"

"Well, I have nothing of substance in my fridge, and I can't cook, so we can order out?"

Isaiah laughs. "Why don't we go grocery shopping? I can cook."

"Why?"

"Because it concerns me that you have nothing in your fridge. And I'm scared I'm going to open it and see a bunch of frozen microwavable dinners. And it could be fun." He scratches his chin and runs his hand over his face. "And…I want to cook for you."

"I resent the frozen meal comment," I say, "but that's fine." No one besides my family has cooked me a meal in a long time. And maybe it doesn't mean anything, or maybe it means he's just as nervous as I am. "Let me just grab my shoes."

I run into my bedroom to grab my sneakers. The octopus I pulled out from the closet is front and center on my bed since I couldn't bear to put it back. I leave it and step back into the front room.

Isaiah's eyes trail over my form as I step into view. They roam around my face, my cheeks that are currently turning hotter by the second, before panning down over my shoulders and my arms, goosebumps rising on my forearms as he goes. He takes all of me in, every inch down to the shoes on my feet before meeting my eyes. Like he hasn't been able to all the other times.

I wonder if it's sunk in for him that we're here. That only two days ago, I was in his apartment, and today, he's in mine. My heart beat goes from slow to fast in a matter of seconds thinking about it. Especially with him looking at me like that.

"Ready," I breathe out.

We head toward the door together, but he beats me to it, pulling it open. The keys jingle in my hand as I step out, and his hand finds the small of my back. The contact lasts for less than two seconds, but my body sings. Sinking into his touch, having the contact after years of living without, feels a bit like coming home. It's a new home, one we have to learn how to navigate, how to re-enter each other's lives, but it doesn't diminish that comfort. How instant it is, how—that even after tears and fights—Isaiah still feels like home.

And that I was right to think he probably always will.

"Do you even own a spatula?"

I cross my arms, hip hitting the shopping cart that is so full, it's fucking heavy. "This is getting ridiculous."

"What's ridiculous is the state of your kitchen. I'm highly concerned."

"You know, when you said you wanted to cook, I didn't hear you say that you wanted to berate me over the lack of utensils I have."

Isaiah throws a spatula and some other things into the cart. He takes over pushing it down the aisle and smiles at me. He looks so carefree. Of course, I want to think part of that is me. He was always more open and comfortable when it was us versus a large group. I got to see sides of him that others didn't and vice versa, and it feels like that's coming back out. Without even thinking of it.

"Isaiah, what else could we possibly need?" I whine when he stops to examine the shelves. I rest my head on his shoulder for a moment before I snap my head back up.

"Almost done, promise." He brushes against me as we start moving together in step. We turn up the freezer aisle. "The chocolate drumsticks still your favorite?"

"Yeah, but they don't make the all-chocolate ones anymore, or I can't ever find them. Do you still like that weird, frozen chocolate cake?"

Isaiah grabs two pints of ice cream. "It's not weird; you liked it. But only on special occasions. I bought it for myself when I got the book deal and when it was published."

"That must've been exciting."

We move up the aisle together. "It was, and it wasn't."

"In what way?"

"I celebrated alone both times, so it was anticlimactic in a sense. There was no one around to really be excited with me."

My fingers itch to reach out to him, but I keep my arms crossed. "Where was your mom?"

There is a long line at the checkout counters, so we merge together at the end of one. "We weren't talking that much when I got the deal. I even went a bit MIA on her, too in the beginning, so it was still a bit of a sore spot for her. For the publication date, we just couldn't be in the same place."

"I'm sorry you celebrated alone. Those are huge accomplishments, Isaiah," I say, his eyes flickering when I say his name. "I'm proud of you. I wish I could've been with you."

"Just promise you'll eat the next frozen chocolate cake with me?"

Gentle, comforting heat drapes over me. "Promise."

If someone had asked me a month ago if I thought I'd be standing in a grocery store with Isaiah, I would've said they were on an acid trip. Even if they asked me if I thought I'd be talking to Isaiah, I would've laughed in their face. But here we are.

"What do you want me to make tonight?"

I raise a brow. "You're the one who insisted on adding the entire store to the cart. Why are you asking me?"

His head falls forward, the nose ring glimmering in the light. "I don't want to make something you won't like."

My insides turn to mush at the almost imperceptible shake in his voice, his own nerves shining through. "You won't."

We hold eye contact for a moment. Every time I look into his eyes, I find something I forgot about. The little eye freckle he has, the black of his eyelashes. How warm those eyes become when they're looking at me. A soft smile forms on his lips—a shy smile, possibly my favorite smile of his.

It never sunk in how well you have to know someone to recognize these things: the different types of smiles they have, what the scrunching of a nose means. Maybe they've changed since we were last together, but I could still pass the Isaiah test. Standing here together, instead of feeling hopelessness at having missed all these years, I find myself excited.

Roused at the prospect of getting to discover new things, to memorize him all over again.