Page 57 of When You Wish Upon a Wideout

“Is Beau alright?” I asked DJ, the team quarterback, who was half walking, half stretching.

“He’s good.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’m good,” Beau said, walking up behind us, followed by more players.

I wanted to give him a bear hug, Mom. My hands, my arms, my whole body fought to fling myself around him. I looked into his eyes, which were a little glossy, but normal, and that brought me some relief.

Beau tipped his head toward the side of the locker room. I turned, looking over my shoulder at the jumbotron, and saw a few minutes were left of halftime before slipping through the herd of players gathered outside, hoping no one would notice.

I didn’t know where Beau went, but he found me when I walked around the corner, yanking me tightly against him. His helmet fell to the ground when he wrapped his arms around me. I brought my hand to the back of his head when he started to shake.

“You’re not alright.”

“Head hits freak me out.”

Of course, they do. They freak everyone out, Mom. But Beau once hit his head so hard on the pavement that it knocked him out, and he woke up in a hospital with eighteen stitches, a concussion, and a dead brother.

“You don’t have to play.” I squeezed him. “Tell my dad—”

Beau shook his head against mine. “FSU scouts are here, I have to play.” His breath was warm against my skin when he said that, and it upset me. Because whatever Beau was feeling—in his head, in his heart—was scary and valid and more than enough reason to sit out the rest of the game.

“I just needed a second,” he whispered against my skin.

When his grip tightened, I knew what he needed was a second with me, and I got it in that moment, Mom. Sometimes when you’re scared or hurting so much that it breaks you down, just a hug from someone you love makes it okay enough to face your fears and finish the game.

You were that for me before, on the first day of school, at the kitchen table when I practiced a presentation I was nervous about giving the next day. You held my hand when I was scared and hugged me when I cried.

But now you’re gone, and I want you to know, I found someone to be that for me. Or I found him again. Because, as kids, we encouraged each other. We listened to each other when we were sad. We shared candy bars and happiness, the blame when we dug up your flowers trying to see if we really could make it to China. Now we share kisses and wishes, cakes his mom makes that taste delicious but aren’t perfect enough on the outside for customers, yet are perfect for us. And now we share our fears. But maybe, we always have.

When Beau let go of my hand before picking up his helmet and returning to the field with the team, I wondered how long I’ve really loved him, and that feeling struck me so hard I could barely take any more photos. But after the final whistle, I snapped a photo of Dad and Beau during Dad’s brief moment of celebrating the win before worrying about the next game.

But the best moment came after, when Dad was yanked away by other players and staff, and Beau walked up to me. He had this funny look on his face, like he was trying to say something but wasn’t surehowto say it.

“Will you be my girlfriend?”

I nearly jolted back, and then I felt silly. Because if I wasn’t his girlfriend already, what was I?

We stood a few feet apart, and he was looking at me all dazed and confused. He was looking at me like he had stars in his eyes.

And then I smiled and nodded. But I didn’t want to keep it quiet anymore. Our relationship had always been silent, a blur of whispers in an effort not to get caught. I wanted the entire world—or at least all of Brookwood—to know that the boy with the shaggy brown hair and matching eyes, with the scar on his head that carried the burden of the past and the weight of the future, was mine.

So I jumped and wrapped my arms around him, and I let him lift me up. Even though it’s been a whole day, it still feels like my feet haven’t touched the ground yet.

I wish it will always be this way.

Love,

Sienna

my shooting wideout

Dear Mom,

I read the first entry I wrote in this diary or journal or whatever we’re calling it. And it’s crazy in five monthshowmuch things have changed. But if it’s been five months since I’ve started writing you, it means it’s been at least six months since you’ve been gone.

That’s how different it is now—I used to count hours, days, weeks, months. And the sixth month milestone, I totally missed.

---