go?) to be worn tomorrow. And probably for several days after that, if I’m being honest. I pull on a large sleep shirt, turn off the bedroom light, and head straight for the kitchen.

After dispatching a frozen dinner into the microwave, I retreat to my movie room. My film collection fills up my spare bedroom, which I’ve turned into a miniature version of that endangered species, the video rental store. Above the door, I’ve even plastered the ubiquitous “Be Kind, Rewind” signage I purchased from a Blockbuster “Going-out-of-business-for-good-sayonara-thanks-for-nothing-Netflix-and-Redbox-and-the-rest-of-you-ungrateful-movie-loving-bastards” sale.

There are no posters in here, because built-in shelving covers every available inch of wall space. I’m also up to my second row of movies on each shelf. It’s not an ideal system; it’s cumbersome for cataloging and organizing when I add new films. I’m not sure what I’m going to do when I truly run out of space, which will be soon, at the rate I buy movies. I guess I’ll—gulp—cull the collection. Or buy a bigger place. I’ll worry about that when it happens, though.

Right now, my biggest concern is zeroing in on which film best suits my mood and will be keeping me company for the evening. Standing in the middle of the room, I close my eyes and tap my eyelids. It’s likely I own any film that floats through my head, so I focus on my feelings.

After that depressing rush-hour conversation with Greg, Home for the Holidays with Holly Hunter is perfect. I walk straight to the section of shelving that houses the H’s. Since the film is one of my favorites, I own it on both VHS (the original purchase) and in digital format, but I slide the newest version from its slot on the shelf and carry it with me to the living room.

The microwave dings as I press “play” on the remote, and that familiar Paramount summit appears on my screen, soon surrounded by the circle of stars that almost always gives me goose bumps. Because I’m about to have an experience. Good, bad, or indifferent. I’m going to meet some new friends or reunite with old ones. In this case, I know exactly what I’m about to get, and I’m going to love every minute of it.

It’s going to be much more satisfying than that lonely meal for one that’s bound to be volcanic on the edges and glacial in the center.

Before I can burn a single taste bud, however, my phone chimes next to me on the arm of the sofa. An incoming text from Rae reads:

Have you checked out KB’s Twitter account lately?

The answer is, surprisingly, no. I still haven’t forgiven Mr. Tight End for being a no-show to the Christmas party and dashing my fantasies. Allegedly, he was spending the bye week in his hometown of Cincinnati, to visit family and watch his brother, a Bengal, play the Thursday night game. I guess nobody told him his biggest fan would be at his team’s Christmas party. That definitely would have changed everything.

With one hand, I text back, No, while taking my first bite of lukewarm lasagna.

I’ll give you a minute

I navigate to Busch’s Twitter page. All I see are the usual pre- and post-game pep- and smack-talk tweets.

I go back to my text conversation with Rae.

I don’t see anything weird. What’s up? Did he propose to me out there? I told him I didn’t want all that publicity!

Ha. Ha.

Seriously. What?

He must have taken it down. Or was told to take it down. Some groupie asked him if he was single, and he replied, Send me your picture, and I’ll let you know. Ugh!

I never said he was classy. Just that he fills out those pants mighty nicely, and I’d hit that

You’d be a match made in heaven

Make it happen, Lewisberg. KB, wrapped in a bow, delivered to my house, on Christmas morning. BAM.

NO. He makes Jet Knox look like a choir boy. And a Rhodes scholar

Knox will do, in a pinch

Have G set you up with someone from his work

I’d rather die

Nice, stable, normal human resources guru

You want me to date my brother?

One of his friends

He doesn’t have friends

Colleagues?

Gross. Don’t you have bags to pack for your trip tomorrow?

I’m all set. Ready to kick some Raider rumps!

That sounds like something stolen from KB’s tweets

Eff you. I’m going to bed

Love you! G’night!

I want to tell her to say hi to Jet for me, but not only would that be pathetic, but it would break my perfect streak of not talking to her about him in any context other than football. It’s getting easier. At first, I wanted to ask her all the time if he’d said anything about me to her, not caring if it made me sound like a teenager. But the more time passes, the more I realize nothing’s going to happen there, and the chances of him remembering me are slim.

Not that I expected to get a call or text. After all, I’m me and he’s Jet Knox. He’s probably already deleted me from his contacts to make room for all of the other numbers he’s collected in the past month. Which is just as well. As much as I like to joke about it and talk a big game, guys like Jet Knox and Keaton Busch are way out of my league.

Tuning back into my movie, I contemplate how Robert Downey, Jr. or Dylan McDermott are more my speed: cute, unattainable, and thousands of miles away.

Four

Rae & Maura: A Friendship

Rae and I have been best friends since she moved into the house next door the summer before we started sixth grade. She was a scrappy tomboy who reminded me of an older version of Scout in To Kill a Mockingbird. Freckled, wiry, and dirty, she introduced herself to me with a business-like handshake and a confident, “We’re going to be best friends,” when my mom dragged me over to the Lewisbergs’ house to welcome them to the neighborhood.

I wasn’t as positive.

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