Catching His Eye

“Like what?”

“Like ask him out.”

Emily burst out laughing. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m not kidding. He’s always liked you, Emily. I mean he still calls you, right?”

“Once. He called once a hundred years ago. As a friend. Nothing more.”

“He’s older now. More mature.”

“And dating older, more mature supermodels. Not one chance in hell he’d ever go for me that way.”

“You don’t know that.”

Emily lifted her right brow.

Zoey’s shoulders sagged. “It could happen,” she said weakly.

“No, it couldn’t,” Emily said with a sigh. “But it sure would have been nice, huh?”

“What?”

“One night. One perfect night. Champagne, a full moon, music, flowers. I would have been happy with that, you know? With the memory.”

No one spoke for a moment and, just as startling, no one ate anything for a moment. Emily guessed they were all thinking of their own secret dreams. Those heartfelt wishes for things that could never be.

She’d be fine. She would. She was a champ at landing on her feet. “Okay,” she said, climbing off the bed again, more than ready to change the subject. “I say we all get into our jammies and start some serious gossip.”

“HUH?”

“Shh.”

Sam blinked, trying to make sense of what she was hearing. It was too dark to see, and what the—

“Come on,” Hope whispered. “And don’t make any noise.”

Sam threw back her covers and climbed out of the cot she’d won playing Rock, Paper, Scissors. It wasn’t the bed, but it wasn’t the floor, either. She followed Hope toward the bathroom, and when she saw that it was nearly four in the morning, she almost turned right around and went back to bed.

Hope anticipated the move, however, and grabbed her hand, pulling her toward whatever the heck was going on.

They reached the bathroom, and Hope shoved Sam inside, then Hope joined her. Once the door was closed, the light came on. Everyone was there. Except Emily.

Zoey had on her Bugs Bunny pajamas. Lily wore a nightshirt that advertised a Stephen King novel. Julia had on a cropped T-shirt that showed off her perfectly flat tummy and boxers that showed off her perfectly gorgeous legs. And Hope? She had on men’s pajamas. Both the top and bottom. Sam’s conservative white nightgown seemed hideously dull.

“Okay, so here’s what I propose,” Hope said, hopping up on the sink counter with far too much energy for four a.m. “I say we give Emily what she wants.”

“A good night’s sleep?” Zoey suggested.

Hope gave her a look. “No. One night with Scott Dillon. One perfect night.”

Sam’s mouth hung open, and she wasn’t alone in her bewilderment. All the girlfriends except Hope, of course, looked stunned.

“Are you nuts?” Lily asked.

Zoey nodded. “She’d kill us.”

Julia sat down on the commode seat. “What are we supposed to do? Hypnotize him into dating her? Buy him for her?”

Hope smiled. “I don’t think it will come to that. I think, if we do our jobs correctly, Scott Dillon will ask Emily Proctor out of his own accord.”

“And why would he,” Lily asked, “when he’s never been interested in her before?”

“Because we’re going to take our little Emily, and turn her into the sexiest, most gorgeous creature he’s ever laid eyes on. That’s why.”

No one spoke. Someone, Zoey probably, hiccuped. They exchanged glances. Finally Hope threw her arms into the air, accidentally sending Emily’s toothbrush flying into the bathtub. “Well? Are we or are we not The Girlfriends?”

“We are,” Zoey said.

“And do we or don’t we help one another?”

“We do,” Sam agreed. “But—”

“But nothing.” Hope leaned forward. “We can do this, guys. And you know what’s going to happen? Emily’s going to come away from this with so much self-confidence, with so much pride, that she’ll be able to get any man she wants. Scott Dillon, George Clooney. Whoever.”

“Little optimistic there, aren’t you, Hope?” Julia asked.

Hope nodded. “I’d agree if it was just me working on Emily. But it’s us. All of us. We can do this, guys. I just know we can.”

Julia waved her hand. “One more thing? What if Emily says no?”

Hope jumped down from the sink. “Then we’ll make her say yes.”

THE FOOTBALL TROPHIES WERE lined up in perfect symmetry, polished to a high sheen, exactly where they’d been nine years ago when he’d moved out of his parents’ home to go to Texas A&M.

Scott shifted his attention to the wall, to the pictures, the green and white flags, the display of Sheridan High memorabilia his parents had preserved like a shrine. They had been good days. Important days. But he’d moved on. At least, he’d tried.

He turned back to his open suitcase and started putting his clothes in the bureau, guilt eating a hole inside him. He didn’t want to be here. He was on the cusp, inches away from a dream career after years of disappointment. Destined, finally, to regain his former glory. But instead of preparing for an interview at ESPN, he was in his old bedroom, in his old town, in his old life.

It wasn’t fair. But, as Coach Teller always said, nothing’s fair except a fine spring day. Coach. At least Scott would get to visit him. That was a good thing.

He heard his mother in the hallway, her slippers scratching lightly on the hardwood floor. “Scott?”

“Yes, Mom?” He shut the top drawer, pasted on a smile and turned to face her. God, she’d gotten old. Old beyond her years. It was frightening.

He’d been born late in his folks’ lives, when his mother had been forty-one and his father forty-five. His mother had always had more energy than any two people he knew, but now she walked with a shuffle. It took her a long time to climb the stairs. She’d stopped coloring her hair, so it was white now, instead of the strawberry-blonde it had been forever. The vibrant part of her had gone, and he wanted more than anything else to help her get it back.

The decline had started when his father died. She’d loved the old man, and Scott had a feeling she wanted to join him. But she wouldn’t. Not while she had her son to care for.