“Makes sense.”
He fidgets and glances from me to the television as Jet takes the final knee, underhand tosses the ball to the ref, and jogs off the field, toward the bench.
“Game over,” I announce, turning once more toward the kitchen.
“Maura!” Colin rushes over and removes the bottles from my hands.
I’m so taken aback by his odd behavior, I don’t resist, but I do ask, “What the heck are you doing?”
“Let me worry about clearing up.” However, he sets the collection of glass containers on the nearest surface and leads me by the arm back to the couch.
“What? No! You’re a guest.”
“We’re both guests, technically. In effect.”
“Uh, I guess. But I invited you here.”
“I invited myself. Which was terribly rude, come to think of it. So the least I can do is clear up. You simply have a seat and relax.” He pushes me down onto the sofa. “You must be knackered after watching that game.”
Sitting on the edge of the cushion while he plumps a pillow behind me, I eye my strange little friend and say, “It wasn’t as bad as I thought.”
Sure, it was hard at first to see what a gorgeous fall day they’re having out there in San Diego, especially considering we’re experiencing yet another soggy Sunday here in Kansas City, but I can’t begrudge them the nice weather. For the most part, I’m glad Mother Nature has conspired to provide my brother and dad a picture perfect day.
Life is good. It’s trite, and it’s a cliché, but it fits. Life is amazing. I’m in love and loved back in equal—if not greater—measure. I’m young and healthy and gainfully employed at a job I don’t hate and sometimes even enjoy, on the best of days. It’s petty and ungrateful to sulk because one weekend of my life didn’t go as originally planned.
Now that I’ve had a few days away from work, I don’t feel so run down. With the job fair behind me, I’m lighter, in general. I did it. I’ll do it again, only next time with less angst, because I’ll know I can.
As for this game, I did approach it with some trepidation. I probably assigned more significance to the win than was necessary, division rival or not. While I eventually did decide I’d watch it, no matter what, I wasn’t keen on having to regulate my behavior or my responses to the unfolding action due to the presence of someone else.
But it hit me the third time I tried to back out of hosting Colin, and he wouldn’t hear of it, that his insistence at coming here today was about more than a game he may or may not be all that interested in watching. He wanted to be here to support me, his friend. Sometimes being a good friend—or sibling or child or lover or person—is not only about giving; it’s also about accepting the care of the people who love you. For whatever reason, Colin needed to nurture me today. The least I could do was let him.
His behavior throughout the afternoon has only confirmed that suspicion. He’s watched me more than the television. So I’ve made it a point to show him I’m fine.
He kept me preoccupied at the beginning of the game, as we got settled in with our drinks and snacks and caught up on life. The Blue Rinse Brigade is as colorful as ever, and his storytelling skills only make them more hilarious. He seemed relieved that I took such delight in his stories and was in good spirits.
The odd thing is, though, as the afternoon turned to evening, and I became more and more relaxed, with the help of a couple of beers and a game in which the Chiefs didn’t trail for a single minute, Colin became more, not less, fidgety. At one point, when I was dozing before halftime, as I have a habit of doing, he clapped his hands and whistled to wake me. Not only did that bring Torzi running, but it scared the crap out of me. When I insisted I needed to rest my eyes while the commentators droned on about Jet’s comeback and the other games happening around the league, Colin was equally dogged about keeping me awake, plying me with sugary snacks and demanding I show him how to make coffee with the fancy machine in Jet’s kitchen, then nearly forcing me to drink the strong brew.
“You have to stay awake to explain things to me.”
So I did. But while I allowed him to coddle me throughout the game, this latest behavior is too weird to let slide.
“What is your deal today?” I finally ask.
“My deal?” he repeats guilelessly, blinking, then rapidly and repeatedly shifting his attention from the TV to my face.
I glance at the screen, but the coverage is lingering on a wide shot of the field, the helmetless players from both teams mingling and greeting each other, saying, “Good game,” and “Hey, how’s it going?” The usual. I don’t see Jet, but it’s a shot taken from so far away, on one of those cable cams, that I don’t expect to be able to see him. Plus, the sideline reporter has probably pulled him away for a post-game interview.
Returning my focus to Colin’s face, I ask, “What’s going on? You’ve been shifty all day.”
He widens his eyes and puffs out his cheeks, but before he can issue a denial, it dawns on me. “Wait a second. Did Jet put you up to this?”
He pales. “Jet? No. What makes you— That is, why on earth would you think— Er, put me up to what?” Again, his eyes flick to the television.
I follow his attention, and just as I’m about to persist with my line of questioning, accusing him and my boyfriend of having me on mope prevention
