Free Magnolia by Kristi Cook

no to the offer. “So, have you decided where you want to go to school next year?”
    â€œDepends on whether or not I get any offers to play ball. I’m not counting on Ole Miss, but maybe Delta State. How ’bout you?”
    I briefly consider telling him about the NYU thing—since we’d taken that film class together and everything—but decide against it, since I don’t want the whole town to know by sunrise. “I’m not sure yet,” I say instead.
    Just then the waiter appears bearing two dessert plates. He sets them in front of us and then busies himself refilling our water glasses before disappearing again.
    â€œAny idea what you’re going to study?” I ask as soon as we’re alone again.
    â€œYou mean I’m supposed to actually study something? Besides Beer Pong 101, I mean?” He shovels a bite of cheesecake into his mouth, and I’m left wondering if he’s kidding or not.
    He’s actually a pretty good student. Not AP track or anything like that, but he’s not stupid, either.
    He takes a sip of water, watching me over the rim of his cup. “Seriously, though, my dad thinks I should go prelaw. You know, follow in his footsteps and all that. Who decides this kind of thing now, anyway?”
    I want to say, “Oh, you know . . . people who care about their future,” but I somehow manage to bite my tongue.
    I pick at my dessert, watching quietly as Patrick devours his.
    â€œS’good, huh?” he says around a mouthful.
    I just nod and continue poking. Trying not to be too obvious, I sneak a peek at my cell to check the time. It’s getting late. I cross my legs. Uncross them. Fiddle with my napkin.
    â€œYou about ready to head out?” Patrick asks after a few minutes of awkward silence. “It’s okay. I get it. It’s been a long day. Just let me pay the check.”
    He reaches for his wallet just as I go for my purse. “Hey, no way,” he says, shaking his head. “This is my treat. I asked you out, remember?”
    â€œYou sure?”
    â€œI’m sure.” He offers me a smile, his cheeks dimpling. “Sit tight; we’ll get you out of here soon enough.”
    He’s a nice guy, and I feel terrible for being so transparent. “I’m sorry I’m such a lousy date. It’s just . . . like I said, bad timing, is all.”
    â€œS’okay,” he says with a shrug. “You can make it up to me next time.” Grinning now, he reaches into his wallet and pulls out a couple of twenties.
    I stand and dig my keys out of my purse, ready to make my escape from the most awkward date ever.
    He signals for the waiter. “Wait a sec and I’ll walk you out.”
    I owe him that, at least.
    *  *  *
    â€œWhere’s Nan?” I ask my mom, glancing around the kitchen.
    She opens the refrigerator and pulls out a pitcher of sweettea. “Out on the porch. She didn’t get a lot of sleep last night, so she’s napping.”
    I know how she feels—I didn’t get a lot of sleep either. Nan hadn’t pulled up into the driveway until after eight, a good two hours after my parents expected her. Needless to say, dinner had been a strained meal. We’d all just picked at our food, barely saying anything to each other. You could tell that Mama and Daddy were mad, but they wouldn’t dare yell at her, not now.
    After dinner, they wanted to talk to her about the research they’d done—what the neurosurgeon in Houston had to say, what the doctors in Jackson recommended, what they’d read online. Different treatment options, surgical procedures, blah, blah, blah. I’d had to slip out of the room halfway through the discussion, because frankly, it was freaking me out. I could only imagine how Nan was feeling.
    â€œI won’t wake her up,” I say, and she nods, offering me a glass of tea. She looks strained.