I CAN’T BELIEVE the most beautiful woman in the world loves me back.

Georgia’s damp curls fall across her shoulder as she dresses beside me, her tanned skin glowing in the warm light of the locker room.

“Do you have any lotion?” she asks, forcing me to break my gaze from her perfect tits.

How is it possible that I’m still horny? God, this girl drives me insane.

“Y-Yeah,” I stammer before clearing my throat. “In my locker. One sec.”

I swing open the metal door haphazardly, my gaze still half-glued to Georgia’s naked body, when something colorful catches my attention.

“Wait, what the fuck?”

“What is it?”

Georgia’s brow furrows in concern as she steps towards my locker, craning her neck to see inside.

“Oh,” she remarks pleasantly. “They’re just flowers. Who are they from?”

“I have no clue…”

Who the fuck would put a bouquet of flowers in my locker? I swear to God, if Natalia came in here–

“It’s from your mom. There’s a note.”

Georgia holds up a small card she plucked from the back of the bouquet. My mom’s familiar handwriting decorates the outside of the miniature envelope, and I groan.

“I told her I wanted nothing to do with her.”

“Just read it, baby,” Georgia coos, her voice gentle and reassuring.

“What does it say?” Georgia asks hesitantly.

Her big, green eyes look up at me, analyzing my reaction. An expression of worry flashes across her face when I don’t immediately answer, and my heart pangs at the idea of Georgia being upset.

“I’ll explain, I promise,” I assure her, hastily shoveling my things into my muddy duffle bag. “But Georgia, I need to go to my Mom’s house in Dallas. Tonight. Will you please come with me? I can’t do this alone.”

“Of course I will, Henry… I’d do anything for you.”

The drive to Mom’s house from University Station is almost 4 hours, and I know it’ll be past midnight when we arrive there. Georgia is mortified that she’ll be meeting my mother for the first time with undone hair and messy makeup, but I can’t see why.

She always looks perfect. Not even rough shower sex can take that away.

“So, can we talk about the note? Only if you’re okay with it.”

She raises her palms out in front of her, as if to say that she won’t pressure me to talk if I don’t want to. I sigh slightly – not at her, but at the idea of talking about my mom.

“She wrote that my father would be proud of me.”

“Oh.” She pauses, a quizzical look on her face. “And that’s bad because?”

“Because she has no right to say that. After everything she did to us… how the fuck can she still think she speaks for him? She hasn’t mentioned that man since the day he died and, now that I’ve cut her out, she acts like she’s some grieving widow and not a homewrecker that destroyed our family.”

“Whoa,” Georgia utters, just above a whisper.

“Sorry, baby. It just gets me so heated. I lose my cool when I talk about it, but I don’t mean to take it out on you. I need to get better about that–”

“No, it’s okay,” she retorts, shaking her head, “You have every right to be upset, Henry. But, what exactly are you planning to say to her when we get there?”

“I figured I’d just wing it. You know, off the dome.”

“Got it… well, I’ll be right here beside you the entire time.”

Georgia places her delicate hand on my arm, massaging it gently. I feel my body immediately relax at her touch. My heart rate, which a second ago was beating out of my chest, slows to a calm rhythm.

I’m so in love with her

“Are you sure she’s home?”

Georgia’s raspy whisper echoes through the quiet suburb as we make our way up my mother’s driveway.

“I’m sure,” I reply, feeling a bit overwhelmed by nostalgia as I take in the darkened facade of my childhood home. “She always comes right back here after a game.”

Georgia nods and makes a comment about how pretty the house and yard is, but I hardly hear her. Blood is rushing to my ears as we approach the front door and, for just a moment, I consider getting in the car and driving back to University Station.

“You can do this,” Georgia insists, as if she can read my mind.

Can I?

My loud knock on the door reverberates through the night, and I wince.

“Georgia, I think this was a mistake–”

“Henry?”

Sarah’s tall frame fills the doorway in front of us, her bewildered expression coupled with exhaustion.

“Hi, Sar. Um, this is my girlfriend, Georgia.”

God, it feels good to call her that.

“Oh, um, hi… what are y'all doing here?”

Georgia waves meekly towards my sister, a look of uncertainty in her eyes. Sarah towers above most people she meets – except me – at 6 feet tall. Her hair is long and straight, almost to her waist, and a golden blonde, like my mom. I’ve always thought she took after her, and I took after my dad.

“Henry is here to see your mom,” Georgia offers after a few beats of silence, smiling softly and nudging me closer to the doorway.

“Seriously?” Sarah raises a skeptical eyebrow at me.

“Yeah,” I finally respond, clearing my throat. “She left a note for me after the game and I need to speak with her about it.”

“Alright, weirdo,” Sarah murmurs, swinging the door open fully to invite us both in.

She’s being sarcastic, but something about it is comforting. I haven’t seen my sister in over a year and, being here now, I realize just how much I’ve missed her. She was my best friend growing up, attached to me like some sort of benign tumor. She wanted to follow me everywhere, even to college. She was just a kid when I left, but now, at 18, she looks so much more grown up than I remember.

She looks just like Mom.

Sarah disappears down the hallway, presumably to find our mom, and I guide Georgia into the warmly-lit living room. It looks just like the day I left for Texas University – large, overstuffed couches and a plaid wingback recliner that my mom has always sworn we have to keep in the house to “honor” our Scottish ancestry. A fire roars up the chimney in the center of the room, surrounded by two large windows with brightly lit Christmas trees in front of each one.

“Gosh, this house is gorgeous,” Georgia remarks, her widened eyes scanning the quiet room in awe.

She places her hand gently against the chestnut wood paneling beside her, which fills every wall from floor to ceiling. When I was growing up, their darkness and warmth always made me feel safe – like a hug, or like I was hidden from the rest of the world.

“Yeah, I’ve always loved this room. So did my dad,” I whisper to her, gesturing towards the couch and inviting Georgia to sit.

“When he was in hospice,” I continue, letting out a huffed sigh as I collapse my tired weight into the cushions of the couch. “His bed was set up right over there. He refused to be placed anywhere else.”

I point towards the far-left window of the room, where a large Christmas tree now sits, and chuckle slightly at the memory.

“I don’t blame him,” Georgia murmurs, nudging me playfully as a soft smile brightens her cheeks.

The room around us falls quiet as Georgia takes in her surroundings and I, though I do my best to quell it, practically keel over from anxiety.

How am I supposed to get angry with my mom in front of Georgia, who has never met her? I need her here for support, but I don’t want her thinking less of me–

“Don’t be anxious,” Georgia whispers, immediately lowering my heart rate as her soft voice travels through the room. “I’m here for you, Henry.”