Page 49 of The Goat in the Bedroom
“Turns out we're really good roommates,” Artie said quickly.
“Mmm-hmm.” Nana's tone was perfectly neutral, but I'd heard that particular “mmm-hmm” my whole life. It meant she saw everything and would be commenting on it later. “And Artie, Flynn tells us you're working for one of those sports companies?”
“PerformanceFirst,” Artie nodded, settling next to me on the loveseat without thinking about it. Our thighs touched. I tried not to react. “I work in their accounting department, helping with payroll and stuff. It's only three days a week, so I can keep up with rugby training.”
“That's wonderful,” Coach said. “Using that accounting degree. Your mother must be proud.”
“She is.” Artie's smile was genuine. “It's actually perfect. I get to use my business skills while staying connected to sports.”
“Smart girl,” Nana said, then looked at me. “You could learn something about planning ahead.”
“I have a plan,” I protested. “Play football. Win the Big Bowl. Retire.”
“That's not a plan, that's a wish list,” Coach said, but he was smiling.
That evening, we headed to Flynn and Tempest's for dinner. AbuelaNovela and AbueLeo had arrived that afternoon, and Tempest warned us she was “in full dramatic mode.”
We weren't prepared.
AbuelaNovela took one look at Artie and me walking in together, not even touching, just walking side by side, and pressed her hand to her heart with a gasp that would've won her an Emmy.
“¡Ay, el amor no correspondido! ¡El anhelo! ¡La tragedia!”
Tempest quickly intervened. “She says she's so happy to see everyone.”
But I knew enough from Flynn's smirk that's not what she said.
“Abuela, please,” Tempest hissed.
AbuelaNovela waved her off and grabbed Artie's hands. “You are so beautiful, mija. Such power and grace. You could carry a man to safety.”
“Um, thank you?” Artie looked delighted and confused.
“O llevar su corazón roto,” AbuelaNovela added, looking directly at me.
“She's just trying to say you're very athletic,” Tempest translated with forced brightness.
Dinner was organized chaos. Grandma and Grandpa De Le Reine drove over from their vacation house and we had three sets of grandparents sharing stories, comparing photos on phones, arguing about whether Denver or LA had better weather. Artie and I fell into our natural rhythm. She knew I hated brussels sprouts so she took them off my plate, I passed her the hot sauce before she asked for it, we shared the garlic bread without discussing it.
“You two have such wonderful chemistry,” AbuelaNovela announced. “Like dancers who know each other's every move.”
“We've been friends for a long time,” Artie explained, completely missing the implication.
“Friends.” AbuelaNovela said it like she was tasting something bitter. “What a waste of passion.”
“Abuela,” Tempest looked mortified.
“What? I'm old. I can say what I want.”
Flynn was trying so hard not to laugh he was turning red. Nana and Coach were watching everything with interest. And Artie? Artie was helping herself to more enchiladas.
A couple days later, we took the grandparents to Santa Monica Pier. It was touristy and cheesy and exactly what they wanted, street performers, overpriced snacks, the works.
Nana and Coach walked ahead, stopping to watch a guy juggling flaming batons. Artie and I hung back, and I saw my opportunity.
“Hey,” I said, taking her hand. “Perfect practice opportunity.”
She looked down at our joined hands, then up at me. “Here? But your grandparents?—“
