“Are you ready for the season?” Harrison asks. I glance over my shoulder and nod.
“I am. I think this will be our year.”
“It’s definitely your year,” my dad adds. “Your mom is itching to start planning a wedding.”
“You know it’s not up to me, Dad. We wanted Peyton to finish school first and now that she has, I’m sure she’ll start planning our wedding. Besides, it’s something she’ll do with her mom, not mine.” I don’t know if Peyton has told her parents that she picked out flowers, so I stay quiet there. She told me what they were, but didn’t show me pictures. I have no doubt they’re gorgeous but will pale in comparison to her on our wedding day.
Quinn starts to choke, which quickly turns to laughter, so does Harrison and my dad. I frown at them all. “You do know that both moms are going to be heavily involved, right?” he states.
I shake my head. The last thing I want to do is add pressure to Peyton. If she wants my mom involved, she’ll ask her. Otherwise, Josie Westbury is just going to have to stand on the sidelines. “My mom’s just gonna have to wait for Paige to get married.”
“She’s never getting married,” my dad blurts out.
“Unless it’s to Mack,” Harrison says. My eyes go wide. He has no idea of the conversation that took place at the water tower with Nick and Mack. Everything moves in slow motion, even the rushing rapids have seemed to calm down right now.
“Oh shit,” I say as Harrison is chuckling. My dad’s head turns slowly, he inhales deeply as his hand, which is holding a can of beer, cocks back. He lets go. The can torpedoes toward Harrison. The thunk from the can hitting Harrison square in the chest can likely be heard by the neighboring campsites. Harrison covers his chest and groans.
“You forget your daughter is marrying my son,” my dad seethes. It really should be Harrison reminding my dad of this, since it’s my father who has just assaulted my soon-to-be-father-in-law. But that’s not how our families work.
“If it were anyone but Noah, I’d have a problem with it,” Harrison says raggedly. I have a feeling my dad’s canon of a throw has left a mark on Harrison’s chest.
“Do I get to call you dad?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood. I don’t think Harrison realizes the severity of his comment about Mack. My dad is already wanting to send Betty Paige to boarding school because of this boy.
Harrison glares at me. “Mr. James will work.”
Mr. James? Is he serious?
Quinn spits out the contents of his mouth out and starts choking.
“You okay, son?” Harrison asks.
“Good, good,” Quinn answers. “I just didn’t expect you to answer like that.”
I look straight at Harrison, trying to determine if he’s bullshitting me or not. “Are you serious?”
He doubles over, laughing uncontrollably. My dad and Quinn start in as well, as if this is some sort of joke to them. “I’m just kidding,” Harrison says. “Don’t you think it’d be a bit odd if I made you call me Mr. James?”
“Yes,” I tell him.
“And the dad part,” Harrison shrugs. “If it’s fitting, I don’t care really.”
The rest of our evening is spent talking about nothing in particular. In fact, most of the time we’re quiet and listening to the people next to us, waiting for any sign that they’ve figured out who is actually on this campsite.
By the time we head into our tent, I’m certain I’m going to ask Quinn tomorrow. Maybe take him out fishing or for another hike. Either way, I want to ask him in private, away from our dads, so he’s not pressured to give me an answer he’s not comfortable with.
7
Peyton
To say I’m nervous would be the understatement of the century. I thought Noah’s proposal in front of thousands, not counting live television, would’ve prepared me for anything. But no. Not even close. I swear I’m about to pee my pants from all the shaking I’m doing. Even the tricks I’ve learned in therapy aren’t helping. My palms feel like they’re dripping with sweat, and my legs are bouncing so fast the receptionist probably thinks I’m jonesing for my next fix.
“Get yourself together, Peyton. You’re better than this,” I say to myself, closing my eyes in another attempt to calm down. I have absolutely nothing to lose if this interview doesn’t go well, but I also feel like I have everything to gain. Ever since Mr. Bowen called, I’ve imagined myself breaking down game film with the players and staff. I can see their eyes on me, their pens scribbling furiously over the papers in their notebooks, hands raised with questions, and plays executed like I suggested. Most of all, I see the team winning.
The problem is, I also see Noah. I see him there, doing what I suggest. I see the other Pioneers clamoring around our living room, listening to what I have to say. Not the Rams. Not ESPN or any of the other news agencies who have offered me jobs.
“Peyton James?” A man dressed in a jet-black suit marches toward me with his hand out. I stand, giving it a firm squeeze. “Leo Bowen. Thank you for coming out on such short notice.”
“Well, as you pointed out, I’m not working, so I have time.”