Brynn sat in a Wendy’s, at a table by the window with her back to the wall, the 4 for $4 spread on the flattened wrapper in front of her. The fries were pulled from the sleeve and laid in a row on the paper, each one parallel to the last, the longer ones already torn at the midpoint and set back in line so the lengths matched. The burger was split in two halves, the bun pressed apart with her thumbs, the cheese stretched and broken clean between them. One half sat untouched on the far side of the wrapper, centered on its square of paper. A four-piece nugget box sat open beside the fries, three nuggets still inside, the fourth in her fingers. The drink stood at the corner of the tray, the straw bent at the joint, a single ring of condensation on the table beneath it.
She picked up the near half of the burger, bit a piece the size of a dime off the edge, her jaw working in measured circles, her eyes on the table. She set it down, picked up a fry from the end of the row and bit the tip off it. She set the fry down in its place and tore a corner off the nugget with her front teeth, the breading crumbling against her lip. She reached for the drink, brought the straw to her mouth, the liquid barely rising in the clear plastic before she set it back on the ring of condensation.
Burger. Fry. Nugget. Drink.
The door opened, the hinges catching, the heat from outside pushing through the gap before the AC pulled it back. Reid walked in with Grant behind him, the two of them still in the middle of something from outside, Grant laughing at a word Reid had said on the sidewalk, Reid shaking his head with the grin already set. Reid pulled his wallet from his back pocket as they stepped up to the counter, flipping it open with his thumb, the leather soft from use. They ordered, Reid leaning one elbow on the counter while the cashier rang them up, his body angled toward the dining room, his eyes moving across the tables.
They found Brynn. He straightened up, said something to Grant, and walked over with Grant following. Reid stopped at the edge of her table, his hands settling on the back of the empty chair across from her.
“Look at you. All by yourself.”
Brynn picked up a fry and bit the end off it.
Reid looked at the food laid out on the wrapper, the rows of fries, the burger split in two, the nuggets in their box, the geometry of it precise and deliberate.
“I like that about you. You don’t just shovel food in your face like a fat bitch.”
Brynn chewed the fry and set the rest of it back in its place in the row, the torn end facing the direction the others did.
Grant pulled a chair from the next table, the legs scraping the tile, and dropped into it backward, his arms folding across the back of it, his chin resting on his wrists. “You eat like that because you got an eating disorder or something?”
Brynn looked at him. “No.”
Grant held a hand up. “Just asking.”
Reid sat down across from her, pulling the chair in, his elbows coming to rest on the table, his forearms flat on the surface.
“So I’ve been thinking. There’s this thing out at Hogan Park next weekend. Live music, food trucks, all that. Not a date. Just something to do.”
Brynn picked up the nugget, tore another piece off the corner with her front teeth, chewed it, set it down in the box. The breading left a faint grease mark on the pad of her thumb. “I’m good.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to ask yet.”
“It doesn’t make a difference.”
Grant laughed from behind his folded arms, his chin lifting off his wrists. “Damn, bro.”
Reid kept his eyes on Brynn, his elbows still on the table, his fingers lacing together in front of him.
“What do you even do on the weekends? You can’t just sit around by yourself all the time.”
Brynn picked up a fry, bit it, set it back down. “I do shit with my friends.”
Reid watched her go through the rotation. Burger, bite, set down. Fry, bite, set down. Nugget, tear, set down. Drink, the straw barely touching her lips, set down. Each bite the same size. The same pace. The food shrinking by fractions on the wrapper in front of her.
“You’re different, you know that?”
Brynn’s eyes stayed on her food, her fingers finding the next fry in the row.
The cashier called Reid’s name, the voice cutting across the restaurant. Grant pushed back from the chair, the legs scraping the tile again. “That’s us.”
Reid stood, looked down at her for a beat, the smile sitting on his face. “Next weekend. Think about it.”
He tapped the table once with his knuckle, the sound landing next to the row of fries, and walked toward the counter. Grant followed, the chair left pulled out from the next table, angled across the aisle.
Brynn sat with the food in front of her, the rotation finished, the near half of the burger eaten down to a crescent, the fries shortened in their row, the nuggets reduced to torn edges in the box. She picked up the other half, the one on the far side of the wrapper, whole and untouched. She wrapped it in the paper, her fingers folding the edges tight, pressing the creases flat with her thumbnail. She put it in the bag with the rest and pushed back from the table.
Saint crossed the parking lot toward Beau’s truck with his duffel bag over his shoulder, his cleats hanging from his fingers by the laces. The other players’ trucks pulled out one at a time around him, the engines turning over, the tires rolling across the hot pavement, a few hands raised through open windows. Beau’s truck sat a few rows ahead, the tailgate down, Beau’s bag already tossed in the bed beside a water jug and a roll of athletic tape.
He was halfway across the lot when the voice came from behind him, easy and level.
“Saint. Hold up a second, son.”
Saint stopped, turned. Holt Breckenridge walked toward him from the fence line, his boots crossing the asphalt, his sunglasses pushed up into the gray hair, his hands in his pockets.
“Good practice today, son. Y’all are really starting to click already. Midland ain’t gonna know what hit them when you and Beau are at the top of your games’”
Saint nodded. “Yeah.”
Holt looked at him, the smile resting at the edges of his mouth. A truck pulled out of the lot behind Saint, the tires crunching over the gravel at the edge of the pavement, the engine noise fading as it turned onto the road.
“I been wanting to follow up with you on something we talked about before. Last time you had your friend with you and I didn’t want to make it a whole thing.”
“I remember.”
Holt nodded. He took a hand from his pocket and rubbed the side of his jaw once, his thumb running along the line of it, then put the hand back. “I been talking to some of the other boosters about it. They know some things about your situation, situations like yours rather. Ain’t a lot of money to go around.”
He paused.
“I could set something up for you, son. I got a property off Dawn. Two bedroom, nice street, walking distance to the school. There’s a woman and her kid there now, but we can get them moved for you. You’d have your own place, your own room, wouldn’t be sharing with nobody. I could talk to Gary and get everything sorted out.”
Saint stared at him, waiting.
“And I don’t mean just the housing. If you need a car to get to practice, to school, I can make that happen. If you need money for food, clothes, to take your pretty friend somewhere nice, whatever it is you need, you come to me. That’s what I’m here for.” His voice held its level. He said, “I look after out boys.”
“I appreciate that, Mr. Breckenridge. For real.” Saint gestured vaguely behind him. “I’m straight where I’m at right now, though.”
Holt nodded, slow. “I understand that. And I respect it.”
He took a hand from his pocket and set it on Saint’s shoulder. “But the offer’s not going anywhere. You change your mind, you come find me. Anytime.”
Saint nodded. “Alright.”
Holt patted his shoulder once and let his hand drop. “Go on and get something to eat. You earned it today.”
He turned and walked back toward the fence line where Joe and Derek were waiting, Joe’s arms folded, Derek leaning on the rail, both of them watching. Holt’s boots crossed the asphalt, his shadow leading him back. He raised a hand to them as he approached and the three of them turned and walked together toward the far end of the lot.
Saint turned and walked to Beau’s truck, tossed his bag into the bed next to Beau’s.
Beau lay on his bed with his back against the wall, a beer resting on his stomach, the can tilting with each breath, his other arm folded behind his head. The blinds were down, the room dim, the fan on the dresser turning in slow passes, the air moving the receipts and gas station wrappers on the surface. Gracie lay next to him on her side, her head propped on her hand, her bare feet crossed at the ankles.
“I’m going to look at UT first. Then Tech because my mom won’t shut up about it. Then maybe A&M just to see what it’s like.”
Beau took a sip from the beer. “That’s a lot of driving. You doing all that shit when?”
“That’s the whole point, Beau. I need to actually see the school to know if I want to spend four years there.” She looked at him, her fingers pressing into her temple where her head rested on her hand. “You need to do some visits, too.”
Beau shrugged against the wall, the plaster cool on his bare shoulder. “I’m gonna do them when I’m gonna do them.”
“You’re a fucking senior. There isn’t a lot of time to fuck around.”
“I ain’t fucking around. I just don’t want to do the shit if they don’t want me.”
“Well, you ain’t calling them either so how you know if they want you?”
Beau took another sip, the can crackling in his grip. “I’ll figure it out.”
“I’ll figure it out. That’s all you ever say but it doesn’t seem like you give a fuck about whether you land somewhere or not.”
Beau looked at the ceiling, the beer resting on his chest.
Three knocks came from the front door, firm and spaced, the sound carrying down the hallway and into the room. Beau looked toward the hall, then at Gracie.
“Go get that for me, bae.”
Gracie shook her head, pushing off the bed, her feet hitting the carpet. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
She walked down the hallway, stepping over a pair of Bailey’s shoes kicked off near the baseboard and a pile of laundry bunched against the wall, the shirts and jeans mixed together, a sock hanging off the top of the pile.
A man stood on the porch in an Arkansas State polo tucked into khakis, a folder under his arm, his hair combed, his posture straight. The sun behind him threw his shadow across the threshold. He looked at Gracie, his expression open and professional.
“Hey there. I’m Nate Tillman, running backs coach at Arkansas State. I’m looking for Beau Stanton. Is this the right house?”
Gracie’s eyes widened for a half second, her hand tightening on the doorknob, before she pulled it together. “Yes sir. Give him one minute.”
She turned toward the hallway, her voice low and sharp, the words aimed at the bedroom. “Beau. Get out here.”
Beau walked out of the hallway in his boxers and nothing else, the beer still in his hand, his hair pressed flat on one side from the pillow, the sleep crease still running down his cheek. He stopped at the edge of the living room and looked at the man standing in the doorway.
Gracie stared at him, her jaw set, her hands at her sides. “Go put some fucking clothes on.”
Beau looked down at himself, the boxers, the bare feet on the carpet, then back at the door. He turned and walked back down the hallway, the beer still in his hand, the can swinging at his side.
Gracie looked at Tillman. “Sorry. He didn’t know you were coming.”
Tillman nodded, his hands folding together in front of him. “That’s alright. I should’ve called ahead.”
Gracie stepped aside, pulling the door open wider. “Come on in.”
Tillman stepped inside. His eyes moved across the living room in one slow pass. The beer cans lining the windowsill, seven or eight of them, the labels facing different directions. A plate on the carpet near the wall with something dried dark at the edges, a fork resting across it. The couch cushions pushed crooked, one of them half off the frame. A hoodie draped over the armrest.
Gracie was already moving. She grabbed the cans off the windowsill two at a time, her fingers fitting around the aluminum, carrying them to the kitchen where she set them on the counter next to the sink. She came back, picked the plate off the carpet with the fork balanced on top of it and carried it to the kitchen. She pushed the cushions back into place with both hands, pressing them flat, then pulled the hoodie off the armrest and tossed it down the hallway where it landed on top of the laundry pile.
“You can sit down. You want some water?”
Tillman sat in the recliner, setting the folder on his knee, his hands resting on top of it. “Water would be great. Thank you.”
Gracie filled a glass from the tap, the water running cold against her fingers before she let it fill, and brought it to him. She sat on the couch across from him, her back straight.
“So you’re at Arkansas State? In Jonesboro?”
Tillman nodded. “Yes ma’am. Great campus, great town. We’ve been building something really exciting the last few years.”
Beau came back down the hallway in jeans and a flannel, barefoot, the beer gone, his hair pushed back from his face with his hand. He sat on the couch next to Gracie, his elbows on his knees, his hands folded together.
Tillman extended his hand. Beau shook it, his grip firm, his eyes meeting Tillman’s for a second before dropping to the folder on his knee.
“Beau, I appreciate you taking the time. I know I dropped in on you. I was in the area looking at a couple kids and I wanted to stop by because we’ve been watching your film since last year.”
He opened the folder on his knee. A printed still from game film was clipped to the inside cover, the image dark at the edges from the printer, the field bright in the center. Beau was low in the frame, his pads forward, his right arm extended, a defender falling off his shoulder, the turf blurred under his cleats.
Tillman tapped the image with his finger. “You run the ball the way our offense is designed. Physical, downhill, you finish runs..”
Beau nodded, his eyes on the image, his thumb rubbing once across his knuckle. “Yeah, I appreciate that.”
“We’re building something in Jonesboro. You could come in and compete for carries right away. We think you’d fit our system from day one.”
Beau leaned back on the couch, his hands resting on his thighs, his shoulders settling against the cushion. “I just want to play football. That’s all I ever wanted to do.”
“That’s exactly what we’re offering. A place to come play football at the highest level and see where it takes you.”
Gracie leaned forward. “What happens if he gets hurt? What’s the scholarship look like if he can’t play anymore?”
Tillman looked at her, his body turning to face her. “Full scholarship covers tuition, room, board, books, as long as he’s in good academic standing. Injury doesn’t change that.”
Gracie nodded. “And what about the grades? He’s going to need help with that.”
Beau looked at her. Her eyes stayed on Tillman.
Tillman said, “We’ve got a full academic center. Tutors, mandatory study hall, advisors. Our graduation rate for football players is one of the highest in the Sun Belt.”
Beau’s eyes went the folder, the image clipped to the inside cover, the version of himself frozen in the frame.
Saint sat with his back against the wall and his knees raised, a notebook open on his chest, a pencil in his hand. The graphite had darkened the edge of his index finger and the side of his palm where he rested his hand on the page, the smudge running along the paper beneath his wrist. Brynn sat facing him with her back pressed against his raised knees, her own knees bent on either side of his stomach, the guitar resting in her lap.
Her fingers moved across the strings. The melody sat low, dark and patient, each chord a half-tone from the last, the sound of it filling the small room. Her voice came in over the guitar, steady and controlled, each word landing, every line placed, the phrasing carrying the breath she gave it.
Saint worked the pencil across the page in short strokes, building the line of her jaw from the left side of the frame, the graphite layering in passes, each one darker than the last. He drew the angle of her chin tipped down toward the guitar, the shadow that fell under her lower lip, the fall of her hair where it hung past her face and brushed the top of the guitar’s body. His eyes moved from her to the page and back, the pencil following what he saw, the strokes matching the tempo of her playing.
Brynn played the song through to the end, the last chord ringing in the room, the strings vibrating against her fingertips, the sound hanging in the air for a second before her palm came down flat against the strings and killed it.
She tipped her head back against his knees, her hair falling away from her face, her eyes on the ceiling where the lamplight caught the texture of the plaster. She said, “I found us.”
Saint’s pencil kept moving, the shading building under her cheekbone on the page, the graphite pressing darker into the grain of the paper. “Found us where?”
“On this history site I was reading about southern France. It was Medieval times. Like, the eleven hundreds.”
Saint’s eyes flicked up from the notebook. “Alright.”
Brynn shifted her weight against his knees, her fingers resting on the body of the guitar, her thumb tracing the edge of the soundhole. “There was this woman. French. From near the mountains. She painted. Not the church shit everybody was doing. She painted people. Faces and hands and bodies. Real shit.”
She paused, her thumb completing the circle around the soundhole and stopping. “And she met this man. A Moor. He came up through Spain. He was a poet. Wrote in Arabic or something.”
Saint’s pencil moved to the hair on the page, the strokes longer now, following the line of it past her jaw, each one curving with the weight of how it fell. “What happened?”
“They lived together in this village for years. She painted him. He wrote about her. Just two people in the middle of nowhere making things.”
Her voice dropped, quieter. “She made portraits of him that people found hundreds of years later. And he wrote these poems about watching her work. About her hands. About her face.”
Saint’s pencil stopped on the page. He looked at her. She turned her head from the ceiling and looked back at him, her face half in the lamplight, her hair falling across one eye, the guitar still between them.
“An artist and somebody who makes songs. Living in the middle of fucking nowhere.”
Saint held her eyes. The AC unit cycled outside the window, the sound of it steady and low. His pencil found the page again, the line picking up where it left off along the curve of her hair past her jaw, the strokes short and patient.
“What happened to them?”
Brynn turned back to the guitar, her fingers settling on the strings, finding the opening chord of another song she had written. “The church decided they ain’t like it. They killed each out in a suicide pact type thing.”
She started playing, the melody darker than the last one, the chords stepping down in half-tones, her voice coming in low and certain. Saint drew her while she sang, building her out of the page one stroke at a time, the graphite wearing down against the paper, the lamp throwing their shadows long across the wall behind them.
