I answer a FaceTime request from Gabi as I'm walking into Harry's, only to have her hang up seconds before a text comes in. 

Gabriella Brown: Didn't mean to call, in the middle of a lecture. What's up?

Me: Nothing is up. You called me, remember?

Gabriella Brown: Bitch... Hows State? What are you currently doing?

Me: Walking into Harry's to study.

Gabriella Brown: Classes have barely started. what could you possibly be studying?

Me: Let me know how it goes when you lose your scholarship...

Gabriella Brown: Have I ever told you I HATE YOU... order a chocolate shake in my honor

I haven't told Gabi about dinner at my dad's house or the disastrous ending. More time passes between our conversations these days. To fill her in on all of the drama would require me to type a novel. The kind of text that is followed by a dark cloud of guilt hanging over my head. It happens every time I trauma dump on her and pull her into all of my beefs. 

It's already bad enough that when we do actually find the time to talk I usually take up a majority of our time. I'm so used to Gabi just being here though, so the need to narrate my life feels like a necessity. 

It's never been this way between us. All serious conversations with nothing monotonous mixed in. We seem to only have time for the front page headlines, none of the other filler. Maybe this is  what happens when you live hundreds of miles apart. I'm used to her having first hand exposure. Not getting the play by play later and being asked to give an honest opinion to something that doesn't really involve her anymore.

Alyssa did try to bring it up to me, but I quickly shot her down. I was quick to remind her not to get involved and that I'm fine. And I really think I am. 

That could be why I haven't brought it up to Gabi. At this point I'm jaded when it comes to family matters. The way my father talked to me, the way I just fled and retreated. I've seen the film before and the ending never changes. It's just a play we've rehearsed and performed so many times that it doesn't really hold any weight anymore.

I wish I could be all bygones will be bygones. Sometimes I think that is the only true way for us to all move on from it all. But it still hurts to know my father's default is still to expect the worst. Any little move I make towards being something he could possibly be proud of is unworthy.

I think part of me was hoping that he would notice a difference. I voluntarily came back to his house, I made an effort to be engaged in conversation. All it got me was a reminder that I've put more energy into the atmosphere around us than he has. To him, it doesn't matter. It never has and no I'm afraid it never will. 

I find my favorite booth to ward off any remaining feelings about the other night. I'm ready to regain control over myself. I wasn't prepared for the nonexistent alone time in college. Between classes, the tutoring center, my room, someone is always around. And whoever invented communal showers deserves the death penalty.

But here, within the confines of this booth, I'm finally free.

The vinyl of the bench seat creaks under my weight as I sit and unpack my things. There is a method to the way I arrange it all out in front of me. Computer in the center, planner to the right with an assortment of pen colors. I pop in one headphone and begin by finding the tab for this week, creating a to do list right on the page. 

The waitstaff at Harry's is an array of different people. Some older, some college students. The waiter assigned to my table today is one I don't recognize. His hair is bleached and the arrangement of tattoos on every exposed surface on his body. It takes all of my energy to not be a toddler and stare. Even if it's just to see if the tattoo across Adam's apple actually says, 'Eat Me' or if the shitty font is undermining the deep message actually present there.

I try to make small talk when he returns a few minutes later with my coffee. Pete Davidson is Gabi's idea of a good time so she would love him. I need to figure out what the tattoo actually says before I call her back. But Eat Me guy is called to the back, leaving me alone again. 

I pick up the mug and blow, the steam stumbling off and caressing my cheeks as I do. After a few sips, I set it back down and return to my planner and my carefully colored coded calendar for the week. Blue for classes, red for studying, green for tutoring, and purple for miscellaneous. It's a therapy in and of itself to have coordinating colors for specific times. I go to my to-do list and cross off organize planner and move on to the next item:

Make a to-do list for the week

At the top of the notes section of my planner I write To Do: As I do, my earbud is pulled from my ear. 

 What once was vibration from music in my ear is replaced with the vibration of a voice whispering in it, "I knew your type wouldn't be athletic, but dollar store MGK over there? Even you have higher standards than that Quinn." Before I can respond, he adds even more judgment into my little space. "A to do list, to tell you to make a to do list? You can't be serious?" I know the voice, the timbre deep but smooth with a twang. My body responds without my permission and peeks up at Taylor. 

"What's the square root of twenty four thousand three hundred thirty-six?" I ask. Taylor snorts and slides into the bench across from me before responding, "Being the bigger person is new for you, and not very much fun for me."

I shake my head slowly. "Nope, not a nightmare or you would have been smart enough to answer that question."

"So tell me, Capt.," Taylor rests his head in his hands as he continues in a mocking tone,"Is it his dreamy blue eyes, pretty smile, or the giant tattoo on his forearm to remind him to prepare for the worst, hope for the best?"

"True poetic justice if you ask me," I shrug. 

"I've been seeing you here too much. You got stock in this place or something, Quinn?"

"I could ask you the same thing, Reed," I fire back remembering his flirting with the female waitress when we came to study last week. I haven't seen Taylor since I threatened him in my childhood room. I just couldn't take it, the back and forth with him. An endless cycle of his moods that leave me spinning in circles. Who will I get today? Taylor who wants to joke with me, ignore me, or flirt with me? He expects me to believe that he cares about me, but when you don't show it consistently it starts to feel less and less genuine.

"I like the burgers and it's on my way home. Sue me," he says.

"And here I thought you were just stalking me." I shrug before picking up my blue pen to continue filling in my class schedule for the week. 

"I have a lot better things to do, trust me." Tattoo guy returns with a bag in his hand. I liked him until he asks Taylor if his food should be prepared for here instead. 

"Oh goody! I was hoping you would join me for lunch," I say under my breath.

"What was that?"

"I'm just kind of in the middle of something here." I motion over all the paper and notebooks that have made their way from my bag and spread out across the table. Taylor gives a single chuckle. I only raise my eyebrows in question.

"You're serious? You want me to leave so you can make a to do list to remind you to make a to do list? Is this like the type of gift where it's a box inside of a box inside of a bag inside of another box? Nope. I have to save you from yourself, Capt."

If Taylor lived in my room he might understand. Alyssa has a public speaking oral this week and if I have to hear her argue why she is for doctor assisted suicide one more time, I might sign up for it myself.

When Tattoo Guy returns with Taylor's now plated burger and fries he ignores me altogether, probably assuming that Taylor is my boyfriend and that I wasn't in fact flirting with him. I try my best to ignore both of them by continuing my work. I add buy deodorant and call dad to my list.

"You have to remind yourself to call your dad?" Taylor asks.

"You've been witness to our interactions. You would put them off too."

Taylor ignores me or doesn't want to broach the topic. I'm getting the version of him that doesn't care today, which is fine by me. He continues to eat his food silently. The sound of his chewing is a punishable offense, but his eyes are finally wandering around the room instead of on me so I let it slide. 

He shoves a fry in his mouth as he says,"Dude probably has his last name in giant letters across his chest."

"Just ask for his number already," I spout.

"Why? You want it?" Taylor asks. When I look up, he has a dab of ranch smothered on the corner of his mouth. For a man with many talents, eating food in a graceful manner is not one of them. I throw a napkin at him.

"Why do you care so much, Cowboy? Feeling a little jealous that I do actually give some men my attention?" 

"Of course not baby, I know you want me. I just want to know what he did to make you squirm like that when he stopped by the table." Taylor wipes his hands on his napkin before imitating me by tucking a strand of hair behind his ear and giggling. I fight the urge to smile, instead biting the inside of my cheek.

If only Taylor knew that was merely shameless flirting to fulfill a need and possibly get free french fries in the process. If he really wants to make me squirm he would lean into my ear or calm me baby again. Just letting his scent linger in my space is enough, giving me at least three deep breaths of pleasure before it runs out. I breathe deep again, this time to push those thoughts from my head completely.

"I bet you he doesn't have his name tattooed on him," I say diverting the conversation, "I bet he has a cross or something religious even though he hasn't been to church in the last ten years." I make my assumption from the collection of different and very random items arranged on his arms. Knife, bra, bird, Crocs, a three digit number I can only assume is the area code he grew up in. Not many words though, the one across his neck and the unfortunate one Taylor noticed seem to be the only ones present.

Taylor leans forward, stealing a sip of my coffee before I can swipe it away from him. He sets it back down gently, "Bet, but if I win you owe me a favor," he counters. I shake my head, "A favor, too vague. That could mean anything."

"Nothing sexual, little perv. A favor like doing my laundry." The smirk on his lips is about as permanent as a tattoo at this point.

I narrow my eyes, "and 'doing the laundry' isn't code for sex?" I ask. Double checking that it isn't a well known euphemism after Monica and Chandler 'did their laundry' on friends and it secretly meant boning behind everyone's backs.

"We're adults Capt. If I wanted sex I would ask you for sex. That is what you expect from me, right?"

My cheeks flush in a rosy shade of embarrassment. Taylor is calling me on my bullshit and he knows it. I do expect that from him. To be straightforward and nonchalant with something like sex. I don't want to have sex with him, but my body language must say otherwise. I'm sure if I did ask, Taylor would say yes, but only as a way to satiate a need and nothing more. 

"Deal. But if I'm right, you owe me a favor too."

"If you want to have sex with me, just ask." Taylor purrs as I throw another napkin at his stupid smile.

I stand and walk to the counter under the pretense of more napkins. I make a show of pointing to Taylor who seems unaware that he has spilled more ranch, this time on his shirt. Tattoo guy, who I now know is named Brent, laughs and gives me a handful. Before I walk away, I compliment the only tattoo that doesn't look like it was given in his cousin's basement. It's a bunch of purple flowers that look like Lilies tied together with a yellow ribbon. Brent informs me that his mom's name is Lily and her favorite color is purple. That is just the sentimental touch that makes me feel even more confident that I am about to enjoy myself a nice Taylor sized favor, but not before realizing I should have negotiated the terms and that I get to choose the favor.

🏈🏈🏈

"Do you want to share some fries?" I approach the table carrying the fries Brent did in fact give me as a consolation for crushing my soul. I didn't, couldn't, tell him the real reason I audibly grunted when he said he wants one, but doesn't in fact have a cross tattoo yet. He does, however, have his last name (Winters) tattooed horizontally down his back in block letters he designed himself. As if writing letters is somehow a groundbreaking method for creating something that then you place on your body for all of eternity. I'm so totally writing 'Fire Brent' on the suggestion cards by the door. 

Taylor laughs and rubs his hands together before telling me that he can't wait to cash in on his favor. This little game took long enough that we're actually supposed to be at the tutor center for one of our sessions. Brent dropped off two free coffees, apparently very taken with all of the chit chat he's getting today, so Taylor and I decide to stay put and work together here.

"Tell me something true," he says to me in the middle of my reading the definition for Soliloquy, a term Taylor apparently already knows or doesn't care to learn. All my money is on the latter. I had an extra shot of espresso in my coffee, which can be the only explanation for my willingness to play along.

"Axolotls are able to regrow body parts that have been cut off," I say, continuing to flip pages in the book between us.

"What the fuck is an ax-o—?"

"Axolotls? A Mexican walking fish?" I glance up momentarily to see Taylor shaking his head and tucking his hair behind his ears.

"I don't want a weird ass encyclopedia answer. Tell me something true about you. Something no one knows," he says.

"I'm shocked you have any time to know what an encyclopedia is in between all the girls, drinking, and football."

"Don't forget the classes!" He spreads a hand above all of the textbooks that cover our table, grinning with pride as if I gave him a compliment.

"A real man of many talents," I say, flipping the page again, skimming the text with my finger.

Meanwhile Taylor taps the table with his index finger, "I'm waiting. Something real. Let's go."

"Why?" I question.

"Because I want to try to understand how that brain works." He removes his finger from the table and points it at my head.

"I've been doing that for eighteen years now, no luck," I shrug.

"Well I've been told I'm a man of many talents, I'll take my chances." The wink he flashes is laced with charisma, but when I don't fold he continues. "How about you tell me why you carry a camera everywhere with you." He gestures towards my bag.

"How about I show you an example of Soliloquy," I say, holding the textbook up and pointing to a highlighted passage in the text.

"Come on! You carry it everywhere, but I've never once seen you use it."

"You see me in a fluorescently lit room or a busted booth three days a week." I wave my pen like a wand around the space. "I hardly consider that being everywhere."

"Why do you do that?" There's a shift in his tone, the volume of his voice fluctuates from his usual annoyingly loud octave to a near whisper. When I ask for clarification he continues, "Get defensive. It obviously means something to you, I just wanted to know why."

I cross my arms in protest, willing my stance on the topic to be conveyed trough the gesture alone. I promised myself that I wouldn't let his magnetism pull me back into a pattern I swore very recently that I wouldn't continue. My frustration builds the longer I look at him and the way he looks like he has all goddamn day to wait for me to answer his stupid questions. His eyes are connected with mine, but they may as well be linked directly to my soul commanding me to spill it all to him. 

As I continue to struggle through an answer, Taylor asks if I trust him. I answer honestly. I do trust him. I don't know why, but it feels natural to expect that he will keep me out of harms way. I'm tempted to revert my answer when he stands from his side of the booth and towers over me in mine. The compromising position has a shrinking effect, leaving me feeling two feet tall. The intensity in his eyes could set fires with the right kindling, but I don't mind the threat right now. I tilt my head upward, staring straight into the light. 

"What are you doing?" I ask. 

"I want to show you something, but it isn't here. We have to drive there."

"Is this when you tell me that you need to hog tie me and place me on an altar in the middle of nowhere and do weird voodoo shit while you worship the devil?"

"Your mind is a strange place, Quinn," he says, but I just shrug and blame it on too much true crime.

"How about I pinky promise not to kidnap you or tie you up, or any other sadistic theories you have cooking up there." His pinky infiltrates my space, waiting for me to reciprocate. 

"What about the voodoo stuff? I need a clean aura for my classes this week."

"Can I use voodoo to make you stop talking?" 

"Well...technically yes, but—" I begin, but he interrupts me quickly.

"Getting older by the second over here. Are you with me or not?" I outstretch my pinky and wrap it around his. Taylor doesn't hesitate to follow my lead when I lean forward and kiss the circle of my fist to really seal the promise. 

🏈🏈🏈

We drive for what feels like thirty minutes in one direction. I watch as the buildings of the city begin to fade and more greenery comes into sight. I don't ask questions about the secret location, we just ride in silence. The only sound in the cab of his truck is the screech of air as it rushes through the open windows. 

Taylor casually rides with one arm out the window, the other gripping the wheel. With each passing mile, the rate of my heart increases too. I blame it on the close proximity to Taylor and lack of bystanders. We've been this close to each other plenty of times when sit across the table from one another, but this feels different. I've never had the urge to reach out and touch him the way I do now. I'm keenly aware of the fact that he wouldn't even have to fully extend his arm to let his fingers brush against my bare leg resting on the seat. It has to be the fact that the cab is loaded with his scent. The woodsy scent is intoxicating in such a confined space. I roll the window down just a little further to air it out. 

I take the time to study his profile as he drives and the features I hadn't quite noticed. Taylor has far more tattoos than the ones vaguely visible on his arm. I see another one, smaller than the rest hiding in plain sight on the outside of his right wrist. I want to call him a hypocrite for all the shit he was just giving Brent. He must have at least a dozen and none have an obvious meaning. 

I could ask him about them, maybe even ask him to show me, but that would mess up my concentration. I need to focus on something more important. Like the flawlessly smooth skin above the stubble on his cheek. The work of a well curated skincare routine, no doubt. No one has that good of skin without putting in the work. I make a mental note to ask him if his sister is the driving force behind his put together appearance. The way he has talked about her, she seems to have a lot of influence on him. I can't even imagine having that type of pull with Cal. Maybe when we were six and he still cared about my opinion, but not now.

I'm halfway through my examination of the shape of his nose when he catches me watching him. He makes no comments, instead just flashes me a sideways smile. I don't dare say anything either. Too lost in my mental inventory of him, I barely notice when he makes a slight right at a Y in the road or the fact that the pavement has turned from smooth asphalt to bumpy and uneven gravel.

"We're almost there," he says.

I turn my gaze back towards the window in search of anything familiar, but nothing registers. Moments later, Taylor pulls into a grass opening of a field. He either comes here often or it's a popular destination with the way the patch of land is worn and faded.

I attempt to hide my curiosity as I question his need to bring me to this particular location, but don't hesitate to move my hand to the door and push it open. Taylor shushes me as he opens his door and races around the car to open mine the rest of the way. All while telling me that this isn't it, that we have to walk there if my weak legs can handle it. 

"Is this a set up? Is someone meeting you here to sell me into human trafficking?" I can't help myself as I round the front of the truck, the field somehow opening up further in front of me. Nothing but mixtures of green and brown are flattened into the horizon as far as I can see.

"Stop asking so many questions. You pinky promised. Now, grab your camera."

I shoot him a look, but it only challenges him. He quickly claims his victory when he reaches back into the truck and finds my Nikon tucked safely into its case on the floorboard of the passenger seat. It's like he knew exactly where to find it, making me wonder what other things he's uncovered about me. What things typically buried deep beneath the surface are visible to him. 

He begins to walk down a path in the field equally worn down to the one we parked over and I have no choice but to follow, camera strap snug around my neck. The walkway eventually gives way to an actual trail leading into a treeline both of which I hadn't noticed until they were right in front of me. I have to keep my eyes focused on the ground beneath my feet in an attempt to not trip and fall on a jutting tree branch or ill placed rock. Only when Taylor turns around to look at me do I look up. 

And that's when I see it.

I peer around his shoulder to get a better view. The rustling of the water is suddenly so loud. I have no idea how I didn't hear it while we were walking. Cascading ripples from a thirty foot waterfall fill the landscape to the left leading into a larger body of water. Large rocks and small rocks form together into a makeshift beach at the edge of the waterline. The sun above has started to set, the radiant orange and pinks bounce off the surface of the water like a mirror.

Taylor moves over even further and reaches a hand out, urging me to take it and step onto the rocks bordering the water. I do as I'm told and allow his fingers to grasp mine, providing me the balance I need until I find my footing on the jagged exterior. Once settled, I pull my phone out and take a picture.

"How did you know about this? I've lived here for most of my life and had no idea," I ask, looking away from the view and towards Taylor for the first time since moving onto the rocks. He's already removed his boots and pushed his jeans up to his knees, letting his feet dangle off the edge of the rock into the water below.

"I just found it one day last season. I had just played the worst game of my career. It was our first conference game. I was predicted to go off. It's all the analyst talked about on Game Day...I choked. I was running the wrong routes, dropping passes," Taylor sighs, reliving what I can only assume is one of his least proud moments. "I got taken out of the game in the second quarter and didn't see the field again. I needed to find a place to be alone and the city was too busy. Everywhere I went I ran into someone who recognized me, who wanted to talk about it. Wanted to tell me to keep my head up. So, I got in my truck and just started driving. I saw the worn grass and then the trail, so I followed it. And it led me here."

I wish I could say I was listening to his words, but my mind has begun to dance. Twirling and jumping with what the scene would look like if my mom had painted it. What story would she tell through it? I envision the colors she would meld together to bring the waterfall to life, as if they were actually running water flowing through the canvas. So realistic that you would question if you could in fact hear the roar of it splashing against the rocks below.

I lift my camera and allow its weight to fill my hands as I pull the lens cap off and point. My right eye gazes through the eyecap, my left carefully closes. I twist the lens gently to the left, zooming in on the waterfall. My finger applies a slight pressure to the shutter a few times. I allow my hand to readjust the lens in between shots, attempting to collect different angles. I tilt the display screen up, reviewing my work. I let go of the slack in the strap, letting my camera dangle once more. Only then, do I let myself move closer to him and sit.

"Did you get any good ones?" he asks. I simply nod, and pull the display back up showing him the few I took. I haven't replaced the lens cap yet, instead I raise it once more and capture the landscape from this angle. This time, the shot I share with Taylor is of the light hitting the water just right, a perfect reflection at its apex. I can't hide my smile as I do, finally finding the perfect depiction of how I see it. I can feel Taylor watching me. I quickly recap the lens and bring it to a rest against my middle. Overwhelming thoughts rush to my surface, begging me to take cover. Threatening me to run back to the truck and drive away. To leave him here and far far away from me.

The only people I've ever shared my photography with are my family and Gabi. Even then, I don't think any of them, not even my mom, have watched me for a prolonged period of time like this. Taylor is meticulously looking at me, studying the way I move the camera. He's taking in every detail as if he were going to attempt to reproduce them on his own.

"Why do you have to control everything?" Taylor asks, "I mean I've just noticed that you like things a certain way. To be done a certain way."

I don't answer his question immediately. I think about what to say. What does it even mean to be in control? Is it an ability to make decisions in a situation? I've spent so much of my life with no control over what happened to me and with little care. I didn't even really know what control was until it was a big step in recovery. Self control is what will make or break your mental health. Being able to look yourself in the eyes and say, what you're doing isn't right. I've spent countless hours practicing ways to assert dominance over a situation to fix it, to fix me.

"I like to know exactly how things will happen. If I take the time to make them how I want them, then there is little room for error. I also think it's about comfort. Like watching the same movie or TV shows over and over again. You never have to guess how it ends because you already know. So then you can spend more time enjoying the little bits and pieces you didn't notice the last time." I take a deep breath and will it to slow my heart rate before stealing a glance in his direction. Taylor just nods slowly as he looks straight ahead. On the surface he's digesting my answer, but a distance has entered his eyes. I want to know where he's traveled to, what demons of his own he visits there, but I don't push from fear of revisiting my own.

"Where do you see yourself next year?" I ask, knowing it's my turn trying to lighten the murky atmosphere lingering around me, around my thoughts.

"Playing professional ball. I hope Dallas or Houston to be close to my family. But if I got to choose, I think I would go to New Orleans. I've been a Saints fan since I can remember. It's in my blood," He smiles.

"Football and Mardi Gras? What more could you want?" I nudge his shoulder with mine as I laugh. Taylor finally turns to look at me and returns both gestures.

"Where do you really see yourself in the future?" Taylor recycles my question, but I don't fight him. Even though he somehow manages to ask me all of the questions that require me to think. I could give him a noncommittal answer just to breeze through them, but I can't with him. We're so far past the mindless information that we once shared. I pause, pulling at a stray vine growing up through a crack in the rock. I want to answer him, I just don't know how. 

Growing up it was never really about what I wanted as much as it was about what I was expected to do. My family's life has always revolved around my father and his job. Decisions were made solely to ensure he could keep it and continue to rise to the top. Even more so when my mom died. My wants and needs became an afterthought, only until my father was forced to look them in the eyes.

Regardless, with his entire attention fixated on me it still wasn't about me. The little bug frozen in the ice was even more at the mercy of my father. Any plan I did have became his plan. His plan to correct the mistakes that I had made. A plan to set me up with whatever it would take to ensure no mistakes were repeated. My life became about inpatient treatment, then outpatient treatment, constantly having eyes on me, coming to school here, my job, none of it was truly my choice. My only real plan is that I get the hell out of here next year and move in with Gabi. But then, I haven't thought about it. Anywhere away from my current life is as far as planning has gotten.

"My entire life I've been told I am my mom's mini me, that when people look at me it's like time traveling backwards. I love that. I love that I get to have so many parts of her inside of me. So I guess I just assumed that I should follow in her career path too." I pause and take a deep breath and blow it out completely. "She was a nurse. Her patients were constantly sending her thank you cards or notes, even after their stay hospital stays were over. I think I always just wanted to be someone who people admired, like her." Maybe then I would be someone who wouldn't be defined by the shortcomings I've had once upon a time and would probably have again.

Taylor doesn't feel the need to speak, but continues to nod into the direction of the water, the ripples reflecting in his eyes. When he does glance back at me his smile is reflexive. It lasts mere seconds before his eyes return in front of him. 

"Sometimes," I pause, looking into the distance too, trying to imagine what Taylor is seeing, "I wonder I've ever really thought about what I want, or if I've only ever thought about what other people would want me to do. Do you ever feel like that? Like if you weren't playing football and wanted to, I don't know, become a dancer! Would consider you wasted potential so you just keep playing football?" Taylor finally looks at me, this time turning his entire body until he's facing me. He draws his damp legs towards his chest and wraps his arms around them.

"I've only ever wanted to play football, but sure. Sometimes I feel like I allow myself to be pushed by the fact that if I don't make it to the NFl, that I'm not good at anything else. I feel like I can't make my family proud by doing anything else." Taylor distracts himself by moving a rock between his fingers. "What if I don't make it?" he asks, before skidding the pebble across the top of the water with three skips. Even seated Taylor exerts more athleticism in his hand than I do in my entire body.

"Don't make it to the draft?" I ask. 

"Or I get drafted and never make it out of the rookie contract."

"Where is this coming from? Of course you're going to make it. You're Taylor Motherfucking Reed! You hold the school record for most receptions in a single season as a tight end," I spew, knowing he loves it when I share any football knowledge I claim to not know even though I was running play routes with my brothers in our backyard by the time I was three.

He grunts a small laugh paired with a tight lipped smile. A beat passes between us as I wait for him to respond. I can see the gears running in his mind as he fiddles with another pebble.

"A school record that was set before I fucked up my knee. The only record I'm going to break this season is for the least amount of minutes played."

"You will play. You just have to stay focused on your rehab. Even when it's hard and sucks ass and you want to give up. You can do hard things, Taylor." I use the saying my mom always used to say to me when I wanted to give up on such trivial things like memorizing my multiplication facts or trying to perfect my dive into the pool during the summers off from school. 

Taylor looks down at his hands for a second but then back at me, looking directly into my eyes when he does. His lips curve up at each corner. He doesn't bare his teeth, but both dimples show themselves on his cheeks. "You're right, Capt. I need to stop worrying. And also stop letting you talk me into eating french fries and milkshakes every other day or I'm going to get fat and run slow."

I steal the rock out of his hands and attempt to skip it across the water in the same way, but it plops sadly through the surface with an unimpressive splash. We burst into uncontrollable laughter until tears are streaming down my cheeks and Taylor is gasping for air.

I don't know when it stops, but we fall into a silence once again when it does. For an extended period of time, neither of us dare to disturb the sounds of nature all around us. The rush of water and the buzz of insects is all that fills the space. At one point Taylor gets up and starts climbing on the rocks, a little kid out in the wild exploring on his own. When he returns to the rock he seats himself towards the other end. I don't know if it's intentional, but it doesn't go unnoticed. He's left a space, that if I prompted, he would tell me it is just wide enough for the quarterback to slide through on a scramble.

"Thank you," I say, instead of asking another question. He raises an eyebrow in my direction. "For making me come here. For always making me feel uncomfortable, but comfortable at the same time. For...listening to me talk about my mom." It probably makes no sense to him. A feeling so foreign to what he seems to share with his family. He couldn't possibly know what it's like to need to talk about his mom, but have no one to do it with.

The more time I spend with Taylor the more I watch his cover slowly peel away. Once a hardcover with a sleeve that sells the story of a football player who will stop at nothing to enjoy cold beer and attractive women. Only to house a completely different story, completely different genre underneath. The blurb I see would now dive into the adventures of a boy who is chasing his dreams to make the people he cares about proud, who lives to smile and be happy (exacerbated by beer and women.) I steal another glance at him, his silhouette perfectly lit in the afterglow of the sunset. I want so badly to pick my camera back up, to point the lens in his direction, to hear the sound of the shutter. But I don't because we've only just found this rhythm of coexisting.

"Where is your favorite place in the world? It could be a place you have been to or one that you want to go to someday." I attempt to shift the conversation to something lighter.

"That's an easy answer, the Football Hall of Fame in Canton." He laughs in response to my scrunched brows. "Joking, joking! My mom dreams about going to Paris. I have no idea why. She hates flying. Says that no one in her family had ever been out of Texas, so if she was going to leave she was going to do it big. I want to go see what all the noise is about."

"You should take her someday when you're Mr. Moneybags football player."

Taylor snorts, "Most players do a little more like buy their mom a car or a house."

"You could buy her Paris," I shrug. "but I think you're going to have to figure out how to get an advance on a lifetime's worth of contracts and then maybe win the lottery. And then there's the whole France government thing to somehow bypass."

Taylor throws another pebble in my direction before standing and helping me to my feet as well. It's almost completely dark now. He leads me back to his truck in the last few streaks of the day that fill the sky. I pull out my camera and capture those too, stealing a few of Taylor's backside in the process. Maybe someday I'll share more with him, like my photography or my situation. But for today, just being here is enough.