Page 11 of Lessons in Lemonade

“Come on, they’ve got this, and I want to introduce you to a few people,” he says, holding out his hand. Her eyes drop as she shyly slips her fingers into it, and they walk away from me and the food, toward Billy and his wife Missy.

It’s then that I take a closer look at my friends, and I realize everyone has someone but me. Usually this doesn’t bother me—I’m perfectly fine being on my own—but today, something about it suddenly makes me feel off, like I’m missing something.

Remaining by the desserts, I wait patiently for the staff member to hand me the first slice. I know everyone here welcomes me with open arms—after all, it is a group event—but have I become the third, fifth, seventh wheel?

“Here you go, Mr. Willett,” the staff caterer says as she hands a plate my way. My mouth waters as I see it’s strawberry rhubarb, and the discomfort I just felt dissipates.

I don’t know why I love food so much; I just do.

Well, I take that back. I love food so much because as a kid, it was when my father was home and we were a family.

See, I was an unexpected addition late in my parents’ lives. My father had just celebrated his twenty-fifth year in the army and was promoted to general, and my mother was his doting wife. They never planned on having kids, but then along came me and their lives were changed.

We didn’t move around a lot, but we did move. I grew up under strict but loving conditions, and really the only time I saw my father was when he joined us for dinner. We had dinner every night. Even when I started playing football at ten, he would come home early and we would eat before I headed out for practice.

Much to his dismay, I didn’t follow in his footsteps and head off to West Point. Instead I went to USC, the University of Southern California. I don’t know why, but the military never appealed to me the way it did for him. I have nothing but an insane amount of respect for those it calls to, but it just wasn’t me.

My father has since retired and they now live in Arizona. He spends his days playing golf, and I’m not sure what my mom does. I try to make it out to see them a couple times a year, but they’re so regimented in their schedules, I know after a few days they’re ready for me to go. There’s no question that they love me; they’ve just always lived a very different life.

Which is why I’m ninety-nine percent sure I’m heading to Georgia for Thanksgiving.

Last month, Zach sent out an invitation for several of us to travel north and spend it with him and Shelby, and I would be lying if I said the only reason I’m interested in going is the food. Meg was on the invitation, too, and when I asked Zach on the sly who all was coming, he mentioned that she was.

Pulling out my phone, I contemplate sending her a direct message. Neither one of us has opened that line of communication yet, but I think, What the hell—why not?

Me: Your friends are nicer than you.

I laugh to myself because from the few interactions we’ve had, I know this will get her fired up.

Now that I’ve finished the pie, I head over to the rest of the food and make myself a plate.

“I’ve got my eyes on you, Jack,” says our offensive coordinator from a few tables over. He complained about me eating all of Bryan’s pies and his eyes have narrowed now as he takes in my plate, but I don’t care. As a high-performing athlete, it takes a lot of calories to keep me fueled. Yes, eighty-five percent of my diet is clean, but he knows I still need to consume between four and five thousand calories a day.

Picking a table that overlooks my friends, I sit down and place my phone next to my plate. It lights up with a message, and I can’t help but grin.

Meg: What’s that supposed to mean? And why are you messaging me?

She’s always so quick to respond or leave a comment . . . I love it.

Me: Just met Lexi (her pie is delicious), and because I can.

Meg: You stay away from her. You’re not her type.

Yeah, I know I’m not her type. From the few minutes I’ve spent watching her this afternoon, it’s easy to see the poor girl definitely has eyes for Bryan—not that the feeling isn’t mutual, because it is. He was more nervous about seeing her today than I think he was last year when we entered the postseason.

Me: Type . . . hmm, am I your type?

Meg: Not in a million years.

This has me laughing as I take a bite of food. The girl was right—the shrimp salad is delicious.

Me: You’re wounding my already fragile ego.

Meg: Lies. There’s nothing fragile about you.

Me: I think you should come find out just how unfragile I am. *wink face emoji*

Meg: Gross. That’s what your groupies are for.