Page 48 of The Goat in the Bedroom
“Hey, Nana,” I answered, trying not to sound like I'd just been eye-fucking my roommate.
“We just landed, sweetheart. On our way to the luggage claim. Ready for pickup whenever you can get here.”
My brain short-circuited. “You're... at LAX? Now?”
“Yes, dear. For your big game on Sunday. Remember?” I completely forgot my own grandparents were headed into town for a few weeks to visit at my father’s request.
He wanted to come himself but he was recovering from knee surgery brought on after years of the wear and tear of being an athlete. He had tried to make an escape and come anyway on the family jet but my Aunt Kik was now playing warden and making him stick to his rehab routine.
“Fuck.” I pulled the phone away from my ear. “Sorry, Nana. I mean... shoot. I just didn't realize what day it was. Sorry.”
Artie was already laughing, her hand over her mouth. “You forgot your grandparents were coming?”
“We'll get a car if you're busy—“ Nana started.
“No, no, I'm coming. Forty-five minutes-ish. Don't move.”
I hung up and looked at Artie, who was now fully cackling.
“You forgot your grandparents.”
“I've been distracted.” I gestured vaguely between us.
“Oh my god, they're staying here. In our guest room, aren't they?” Her eyes went wide. “The guest room that currently has my rugby gear all over it.”
“Shit.”
We both bolted from the kitchen.
The drive to LAX gave me too much time to think. Specifically, about yesterday's conversation with Artie where she'd made it crystal clear that she didn't see me romantically. Six years of friendship without anything happening was her proof that we weren't meant to be anything more.
But these exercises... they were my chance. If I couldn't tell her how I felt, and I couldn't, not without risking everything, maybe I could show her. Every practice moment was an opportunity to demonstrate how good we could be together. How natural. How right.
She just needed to see it.
By the time I got to arrivals, I had a plan. The new play, Show Artie We're Perfect Together, was officially in motion.
Nana and Coach were waiting at pickup, looking exactly the same as always. Nana in one of her signature tracksuits that she claimed was athletic wear despite not playing competitively or coaching in a thousand years, and Coach in his uniform of a plaid flannel shirt with jeans and suspenders.
Nana squeezed me tight, then pulled back to study my face. “You look good. Happy. California agrees with you.”
“It's been good,” I admitted.
“And how's Artemis? Still putting up with you?”
“She's great. She's at the house, setting up your room.” I grabbed their bags. “Fair warning, she might have stress-cleaned everything. She was worried about making a good impression.”
“That sweet girl,” Nana said, exchanging a look with Coach that I couldn't quite read. “As if we haven't already adopted her.”
The drive home was filled with updates about family, Isak's new quarterback position this semester at Denver State, Jules's adjustment to UCLA, Everett and Penelope's wedding we got the save the date for in the mail.
When we got home, Artie had indeed stress-cleaned. The house looked like a magazine spread, she'd put fresh flowers in the guest room, and she was wearing actual clothes instead of my stolen t-shirts, jeans and a soft v-neck t-shirt that made her look touchable in the most dangerous way.
“Nana, Coach.” She hugged them both like they were her own grandparents. “I'm so glad you're here. How was the flight?”
And just like that, she was in full hostess mode, getting them drinks, asking about their plans, showing them where everything was in the guest room. I watched her move through our house—our house—like she belonged there, because she did. She knew where we kept the extra towels, which coffee mugswere for guests, how to work the complicated TV remote that had taken me three weeks to figure out.
“Look at you two,” Nana said, settling into our couch with her iced tea. “So domestic.”
