Page 34 of The Change Up
Maybe it’s my fault? Maybe I’m broken?
Maybe God made me the girl who stands on the sidelines rooting for her friends. I’m the girl who’s there to give pep talks and be a shoulder to cry on.
One day, maybe there will be more to life than being the girl every guy passes over. Until then, I’m stuck being the spectator, the cheerleader, the type of girl no guy wants.
A knock on the door interrupts my endless spiral of unworthiness.
“Come in.”
Brynn peeks her head in the doorway with her hand covering her eyes. “Is it safe to enter? All vibrators put away?”
Shaking my head, I can’t help but laugh. “Yes, it’s put up and on the charger.”
“Thatta girl,” she says, laughing. “I made dinner if you want to come down.”
My eyebrows furrow. “You made dinner?”
“Okay, no, but I did order from DoorDash.”
Brynn is a lot of things, but being a good cook is not one of them. Quinton better make good money when he makes it to the NFL because he’s going to need to hire a home chef, or he’ll be stuck eating cereal for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Once we’re downstairs, I follow Brynn as she leads us into the kitchen. I pause in the doorway to check out the spread before me. The light-stained, round table that sits in our small nook is set with our neutral, jute placemats, off-white stoneware plates, gold flatware, and wine glasses. Platters of food from my favorite local Italian restaurant sit next to the bouquet of fresh flowers I placed there this morning.
On my drive home from the baseball center, I stopped at my favorite local flower shop—something I usually do on Thursdays since I don’t have class. The owner, a sweet widower who lost her husband three years ago, is always excited to see me.
Today she had a couple of arrangements ready in case I stopped by. One was a mixture of blush-colored daisies with a yellow center and eucalyptus sprigs. Very simple but so elegant. The other bouquet was a variety of ranunculus, daisies, greenery, and garden roses in shades of pinks, greens, and yellows.
What can I say, I’m a simple girl—give me flowers, a book, and good food, and I’m happy.
And that’s exactly what I had planned—to curl up with my book, light my favorite clean-scented candle, put on my favorite reading playlist, and spend the evening relaxing in my room before another busy weekend full of baseball.
Luckily the team is home this weekend so I won’t have to miss classes, and I can sleep in my bed.
“Everything looks great, but this feels a bit like a date.” I wink at Brynn, letting her know that I’m just joking around.
Pulling out her chair and taking a seat, Brynn quickly adds, “Oh you know, just trying to wine, dine, and sixty—”
“Don’t even finish that,” I say through a laugh. “Save that for Q.”
She smirks before reaching for the bottle of Pinot Grigio chilling on the table. The two of us fill our plates with salad, calamari, and fettuccine weesie. While no Italian restaurant is as good as my dad’s—and yes, I’m totally biased, and I don’t even care—the local Italian restaurant is a good alternative for the days when I don’t feel like trying to cook one of my dad’s meals.
Twirling the noodles on my fork, I take a very unladylike bite. The rich, creamy mixture hits my tongue, instantly causing me to moan around my fork.
“This is so fucking good,” Brynn says around a mouthful of food. I groan in appreciation as the two of us continue to shovel the most unflattering bites into our mouths. Apparently, I was starving and didn’t get the memo.
“I’m sorry about earlier.”
Setting her fork on her plate, Brynn turns her full attention on me. “You have nothing to apologize for. I took things too far. Clearly, there’s more that you haven’t shared with me, and that’s fine. We all have our secrets, but just know…I’m always here for you.”
“Thanks, B.”
Her phone buzzes on the table and interrupts our conversation. She flips it over, chewing on her lip, before typing out a response. My eyes narrow as I take in the shift in her body language. Scooting her chair out from under her, she stands and rushes over to the sink.
“What—” I’m interrupted by asking her what’s going on when there’s a knock at the front door.
“Can you get that? I-I-I need to wash my hands.” Brynn flips the handle of the faucet before lathering—and I mean lathering—her hands with soap. She looks like she’s about to wash an entire kitchen’s worth of dishes rather than her hands.
My eyebrows furrow, and I know I have very large creases spreading across my forehead. “Sure.”
