Chapter 44: Pictures of You

April

I'm flipping through the photo album that the booster club handed out at our football banquet last night. They hold a ceremony for the senior players every year, but I really wasn't in the mood to go, so Darius gave me my awards and stuff this morning.

I've been a bit of a recluse these days. So sick of the bullshit and gossip. I really can't wait to leave all the drama behind me.

In the album, each week's game has its own section, so the first few pages are action shots of me running the ball or making a sack. When I get to the games we played in October, my stomach sinks a little. One of the team photographers captured a picture of me on the sideline with my arm around Peyton. She's looking up at me with a smile on her face.

I swallow, remembering what it was like just to be near her. She's all over the second half of the album—even in pictures that are close-ups of me gazing into the distance, she's there, because I know she's the one I was gazing at.

When I come to the last page, my breath catches.

It's the night of our last game, right after Peyton scored the winning touchdown. I guess the photographer got a shot when I picked her up and spun her in circles. In the photo, her arms are wrapped around my shoulders, face buried in my neck. I'm smiling with my eyes closed.

It's like that memory of holding her is still alive, as if it were all happening again.

Her joy. Her triumph.

It feels like another world, one I no longer have access to.

*****

I wake up the next morning after dreaming about Peyton all night long. The dreams were hazy, but there's one I can kind of remember. She was wearing a football uniform, and we stood together on the dock. I turned to her and said, "I was looking at pictures of you. Remembering how I never told you the truth. I should have told you how I felt about you, about the stuff with Bree. And I'm so sorry for that, Peyton. I'm so sorry I hurt you."

She nodded and stared into my eyes with that haunted sadness. Then she said, "You can't marry her."

"I have to," I said.

She shook her head and whispered, "but you're not the father."

In my dream, I was so relieved. So happy to be set free.

When I woke from it, for a second I still thought it was real.

Then I remembered.

It's only wishful thinking.

Deep down I've been wishing that all of this would just go away somehow.

But it won't.

Prom is tonight. I kept hoping that Bree would change her mind, like she did about the wedding. But she seems set on going. So now I've got to somehow get through prom with a very pregnant fiancé by my side. I'm really not looking forward to it.

Ma pokes her head in my bedroom. "You pick up your tux?"

"Yes Ma'am," I say rolling over on my back.

She nods. "Bree find something to wear?"

I shake my head. "I hope so. I'm pretty tired of hearing about it. All she talks about is how fat she is. I mean, she's not fat. She's growing a damn human being inside her."

Ma smiles. "Yeah, I remember what that's like. It's an emotional rollercoaster."

"Welp, I want off the ride."

She chuckles. "Got a ways to go. What is she, twenty-eight weeks?"

"I think so."

"She's still tiny compared to me at seven months."

I roll my eyes and shake my head. Bree's fixation on her appearance gets hella old after a while.

"Alright, well don't forget we want to get some pictures of you before you head out."

"Yes ma'am."

The plan is to go to dinner and then the dance with a bunch of Bree's friends and their dates. The girls arranged for the limo to pick us up at the Polk County Commerce Center parking lot at six. She's coming to my house to get me, probably because she hates riding shotgun in my 1994 Ford F150.

Ma and Dad have us posing outside, the green rolling pastures in the background.

"Can you try to take them mostly from the chest up?" Bree asks.

She's wearing a low-cut fitted black gown that shows off her baby bump and boobs. I guess now that everyone knows she's pregnant, she's done with baggy clothes. There's nothing about her that is remotely fat. Her arms are long and graceful, her collarbones prominent, and cheeks somehow hollower than before. She sort of reminds me of a snake digesting a mouse. Or a skinny girl who swallowed a volleyball.

After about nine million pictures, she's finally got one she approves of, so we head to meet the group.

We ride along in the limo, and if there's one good thing I can say about Bree's friends, it's that a guy never feels pressured to talk. They completely dominate the conversation.

First topic—who's hooking up with who. Sounds like Cash has been banging some junior on the dance team. According to the girls, she's an easy lay. Doesn't surprise me in the least. I glance over at Bree who stares stoically out the window.

A while back, the prom committee decided to make it a junior-senior prom combined, since our school is so small, and they need all the funds they can get. So, the girls are also complaining about that, how unfair it is that all the juniors get to crash their night. Then the convo meanders into who's having after-parties. The whole time they're yammering, they keep gulping from their Stanley tumblers, which I'm pretty sure are filled with booze.

Bree seems completely miserable.

I mouth the words "are you okay?" at her. She just nods quickly and reengages in the conversation.

At dinner, the girls debate about whether to actually go to the dance. Half of them want to, Bree included. I kind of hoped she'd be one of the rebels this time. But, no luck. They finally compromise on going for a little while, playing it by ear, and then heading to the Lundy's ranch for the post-prom rager.

The whole thing sounds like a nightmare to me.

I glance at Bree as we're riding to the prom. Her face seems strained, like she's upset. "Are you sure you're okay?"

She pastes on a fake smile and nods.

I take her hand gently in mine. At various intervals on the ride over, she squeezes my hand like she's trying to strangle a chicken.

I know she has some anxiety and serious issues with perfectionism, but I can't figure out what the hell is going on. It drives me crazy when she pretends like everything is perfect, while I can sure as shit tell you that things are anything but. It makes me wonder if it's about Cash and his new "friend."

By the time we enter the dance, it's after nine. The place is filling up. Bree excuses herself to go to the restroom. Pregnant or not, she's always going to the damn bathroom. I stand there like an idiot with some of the guys from the team. Beto, Rafa, and Lucas discuss their liquor inventory and whether or not they plan to stay the night at the ranch.

I really just want this night to be over already.

Lucas nudges Rafa in the arm. "Dude! Look who decided to actually come to a school function."

I turn and follow Lucas's line of sight.

It's Marshall...and his date. She's standing there in a long dress, her tan skin contrasts against the white fabric of a plunging neckline and tiny straps. Her hair has grown out so much that the front sweeps to the side along her eyebrows and temples. She glows, lit up from within. It's like homecoming all over again, but on steroids.

Wow. Just wow.

Marshall places his hand at her waist, and when she turns to whisper in his ear, my breath catches a little. It's a backless gown. The opening dips all the way down to the hollow space that curves in before it curves back out underneath the white silky fabric. I'm imagining that her bare skin against his hand is soft and warm, pulsing with the power of muscles in the small of her back.

I take a deep breath as they walk toward the center of the ballroom.

"Damn," Lucas says. "She's a fucking smokeshow."

I might throw up.

Marshall ushers her inside along with their group, Darius, Lamar, Geno, and their dates. Peyton talks to the other girls she runs track with. She quit spring football after the whole Cash debacle because her parents were worried about the concussion. Now she does track after school with Felicia and Alyssa. 

I must look like a complete idiot just standing here with my mouth gaping open. I get my shit together and go search for Bree.

When I find her, she's standing by the water fountain next to Cash with her back to me. I stop and observe them from the end of the hall.

She nods, looking down at the floor. His expression is serious, concerned. He touches her briefly on the elbow, and then she turns to find me watching them.

She walks slowly toward me as Cash ducks into the bathroom.

"What was that all about?" I ask her when she reaches me.

"Nothing. He was just asking how I've been. Small talk."

I nod. But I don't believe her.

"Can we go sit down for a bit? I'm really tired all of a sudden."

"Of course," I say, tucking my arm through hers.

We walk to our table where we have a front row seat to Marshall dancing to some slow song with Peyton. They're talking, eyes intent on one another. Then she stands back a little, smiles, and smacks him on the shoulder. They come together again, her looking up into his face and saying something funny, based on his reaction.

It literally feels like my entire intestinal tract has gone up in flames. It's almost too much to take. When I peel my eyes away, Bree is sitting there glaring at me. The whole time I'd been watching them, she had been watching me.

Her eyes fill with tears. She stands suddenly, bolting for the exit. I sit there stunned.

What the fuck?

I don't know what to do, so I just get up and start walking. Bree is nowhere to be seen. I pace the hall, texting her as I do.

Me: Where are you?

Me: Bree? Please answer me.

Me: Bree! Seriously.

Someone clears her throat. I glance up from my phone to Peyton, her eyebrows stitched together. "Are you okay?"

I shake my head. "It's Bree," I say. "She ran off, and I'm pretty worried about her. She's been acting weird all night."

She nods. "Do you want me to check the bathroom?"

"Would you? I'll try the parking lot. Maybe she went to her car."

"Sure. I'll...uh...text you if I find her."

"Thanks, Thomas. I really appreciate it."

I start to jog toward the doors, but then I stop, turn to her, and say, "sometimes when I see you like this, I can't believe it's really you. You're so breathtaking. Beautiful. It's agonizing.  But the best part is that underneath it all, you're still you."

She looks up at me with a sad little smile. "Thank you." Then she picks up the skirt of her dress a little and kicks her feet out showing me her white Converse high tops. Then she says, "Still me."

Still her.