Page 5 of Second Quarter Comeback
“Nope. He looks more like Dad, and I look more like Pops—same egg donor, different fathers,” he says casually, like he’s explained this a hundred times before.
“Oh. So, your mom married your?—”
“No,” he cuts in smoothly. “We don’t have a mom. Our fathers used an egg donor and a surrogate to have their six children.”
“There’s more than two of you?” I ask, but without waiting for him to answer, I blurt out, “So, are you any good at football?”
“Decent,” he replies, though his tone is self-deprecating.
“Decent doesn’t get you into the draft,” I say, tilting my head knowingly.
“Touché,” he says.
There’s a beat of silence, and I half expect him to make an excuse and walk away. But instead, he straightens, pushing off the wall. “Do you want to get out of here?”
“What?” I blink, caught off guard.
“This place is too loud, and I’m too tired,” he says, glancing around the room like he can’t believe anyone would willingly stay. “And if you’re going to read a textbook, you might as well do it somewhere quieter. There’s a spot I like—not far from here—best hamburgers in town. Great dessert, I think you’ll like it.”
“How are their fries?” I ask, narrowing my eyes slightly.
“You’ll never eat fries as good as theirs,” he promises, his tone completely serious.
I hesitate, the practical part of my brain screaming no. But another part—the part that’s been running on autopilot since I got here—whispers,why not?
“Okay,” I say finally, setting my drink on the windowsill. “Lead the way.”
His smile widens, and I’m already wondering if this is the best or worst decision I’ll make all semester.
Probably both.
The restaurant isthe exact opposite of the party: quiet, unassuming, and tucked into a strip mall that’s seen better days. It’s one of those places you’d drive past a hundred times and never notice. Vinyl booths with cracks patched up by duct tape line the walls, and the air carries the comforting smell of coffee, grease, and fried potatoes.
“This is the spot?” I ask, sliding into the booth across from him, my eyebrow quirking in mild skepticism.
“Don’t judge it by the duct tape,” he says, already scanning the menu like it’s an old friend. “They have the best pie you’ll ever taste. Trust me.”
The waitress comes by, a no-nonsense woman who looks like she’s been here since the place opened and probably knows every customer’s life story. Killion orders coffee and apple pie without hesitation, and after a moment, I do the same—though I add a side of fries. Because priorities.
As we wait, the conversation flows easily, almost unnervingly so. He tells me about training with his dad, a legendary quarterback whose name alone sends people’s expectations through the roof. I tell him about my parents and their not-so-subtle dream of having a doctor in the family. My sister is halfway through law school, and my brother is weighing options between architecture or dentistry. And yes, we’re all choosing safe careers. The kind parents can brag about and will have a guaranteed salary to keep a roof above us.
“Do I actually love science and medicine? Yes,” I say, stirring sugar into my coffee. “But knowing they’re depending on me makes it feel . . . like a chore more than a joy.”
“I get it,” he says, leaning back in the booth. “It’s like there’s this invisible pressure. Like you can’t mess up—not because of what it’ll mean for you, but because of what it’ll mean for them.”
“Exactly.” I nod, a surprising wave of relief washing over me. “Everyone says college is about finding yourself, but it feels more like . . . proving yourself. Like you have to earn the right to even be here.”
Before he can respond, the waitress slides plates in front of us. The pie is golden, flaky, and practically glowing under the dim diner lights. My fries arrive hot and crispy, the steam curling invitingly. I take one bite of the pie, and it’s everything he promised—sweet, buttery, and perfect.
But the fries? Oh, the fries. I ask for ranch, and when the waitress brings it over, I dip one in, dragging it through the creamy dressing before taking a bite. The tangy, salty combination hits my tongue, and I let out an involuntary moan.
Low, soft, but unfiltered.
Killion freezes, his fork halfway to his mouth. His dark eyes lock on me, and the air between us seems to shift. Suddenly, I’m aware—of the way his gaze drops to my lips, the slight clench of his jaw, and the way his chest rises a little faster, like he’s forgotten to breathe.
I set the fry down slowly, feeling my cheeks heat under his stare. “What?” I ask, trying for nonchalance but failing miserably.
His lips curl into a slow, almost dangerous smirk. “Nothing. Just didn’t realize fries could . . . do that to someone.” His voice is lower now, with a teasing edge that sends a shiver down my spine.
