Malena Lott - Dating da Vinci

William retrieved the ball, and I said a tiny prayer that he would make it because it meant the world to him. He bounced it once, twice, and the third time, it landed on his foot, causing the ball to veer left, but he caught it before it escaped, and he started over again. With his tongue stuck onto the top of his lip, his brow furrowed in concentration, William heaved the ball to the sky, causing it to soar toward the goal… and hit just underneath the rim before catapulting back to earth.

His shoulders fell in defeat.

“It's okay, bro,” Bradley said, and I couldn't believe how uncharacteristically nice he was being to his little brother. “Go again.” He bounced the ball to William.

A second time, knees bent, William hurled the ball upward, this time landing on top of the rim, but circling it and falling to the right and down.

“This is the money shot,” Bradley said, and William turned back to us. “This is the money shot!” he yelled.

He positioned his right palm underneath the ball, his elbows bent, feet planted firmly on the free-shot line, and in one sweeping motion, he jumped up high into the air, the ball sailing toward the rim and falling straight through the net. “That's what I'm talkin' 'bout!” William said, and Bradley high-fived him before we gathered him in a hug. Thank God. I meant it. I would've sat there until sundown to make sure William got the shot he wanted. Surely the boys' guardian angels had given that ball a little lift on its journey to the net.

I knelt down beside my seven-year-old, eyes moist with tears, and beamed. “Daddy would be very proud,” I said. “And so is Mommy.”

An hour later, I knelt down again, this time at Joel's grave. I had never asked the boys to visit their father's grave, believing it was too macabre for young children, though Gabriella's children had visited his grave numerous times.

Bradley and William folded their hands and stared at their father's gravestone. Bradley knelt down and traced his fingers in his father's name, while I stared at the orange pansy, which had not been planted at all. No earth had been moved, the grass perfectly grown in around the flower's stem, and upon closer inspection, I saw that the flower had grown up precisely where my tears had fallen two days prior.

I AM NOT CERTAIN of the exact moment da Vinci became my boyfriend. It snuck up on me, not as a private revelation, but as a public display of affection.

I had no idea he was my boyfriend, in fact, until da Vinci referred to me as his girlfriend. To make matters worse, I discovered it at the same moment that a group of his friends from college did: outside of the movie theater the Friday night before Halloween. I don't care what older people say: Friday nights at the local cinema is reserved for young couples, and I should've remembered this, but it had been so long since I'd been on a date that I had forgotten.

While the cool twenty-something wore sporty decaled sweatshirts and ripped jeans, I wore a smart cardigan and khakis and boots. Not cool cowboy boots like this young girl Katie wore, mind you, but boring brown boots that I'd had for eons. I wondered why I hadn't taken my sister's advice on updating my wardrobe, but it hadn't seemed out of date to me until I was around other college students. I'd just been thankful I fit into my pants with buttons again. The moment you find out you are a girlfriend is one you'll never forget. Here's how it went down for me:

Da Vinci and I were in line to see a romantic comedy, my mood light and relaxed until we saw his friends coming toward us. I could feel my cheeks begin to burn, and scolded myself for thinking that it mattered. Of course it was time I met some of da Vinci's friends. After all, we'd been sleeping together for three weeks-not long by any means, but long enough to figure that sleeping together might continue or, by some standards, this would mean we had a “relationship.” I don't know what I thought, except for that I was very much enjoying sleeping with someone again and with da Vinci in particular.

Every last one of them gave me the up-down, the look that I had read about in my flirting research, which is the moment I realized I must look more like da Vinci's mother than his girlfriend. Okay, big sister. But still.

I showed my age further by sticking out my hand when da Vinci introduced them. College students don't shake hands. They nod and utter, “Hey, wassup?” or “How's it goin'?” Hand-shaking is saved for the truly adult moments such as interviewing for a job or meeting someone's parents. If shaking their hands wasn't shocking enough, what came out of da Vinci's beautiful mouth next did the trick: “Everybody, this is Ramona,” he said proudly. “My girlfriend.”

Katie's jaw dropped. Just a little. Maybe she didn't mean to, but I saw it, I swear. One guy-Paul, was it?-muttered, “Cool,” but I'm sure he was thinking it was anything other than cool.

After an embarrassing, awkward moment where da Vinci told them that I had been his English teacher (how cool is that?), we walked into the dark theater. “You didn't have to tell them I was your teacher,” I said. “Or your girlfriend.”

“Why not?” da Vinci said, stuffing his mouth with way too much popcorn. “You were my teacher. I have you to thank for good English speaking. And you are my girlfriend, correct?”

Instead of answering him, I took a long slurp of Dr. Pepper while da Vinci pulled me into him and kissed me atop the head with his buttery mouth, and it occurred to me that I had to ask myself if I really wanted to be da Vinci's girlfriend. I hadn't considered what we were doing was dating. If I had known that's what we were doing, I would've said no to the Italian dinner we had the weekend before at an actual restaurant, and the day after that when we walked hand in hand at the arts festival, and the week after that at the movies. I did think we were hanging out, having fun and some amazing sex, but surely not “dating.”

And girlfriend/boyfriend? Such a juvenile expression for someone who had been married for ten years and wears khakis and boots while her boyfriend wears ripped jeans and athletic shoes.

“Face it,” Anh said later that evening while the boys were watching a rerun of America's Funniest Home Videos, and we ate greasy potato chips with onion dip when I should've been eating carrot sticks with fat-free ranch. “You're dating.”

I moaned. “I knew you were going to take his side.”

“This coming from a walking, talking dictionary. Seriously, Ramona. When two people go out on a social engagement with just each other, then it's a date. Especially when the date ends with kissing and sex.”

I stuffed another chip in my mouth. “Fine. We're dating. But that doesn't mean we have to be exclusive.”

Anh eyed me suspiciously. “You've got other hot young guys beating down your door you haven't told me about?”

“Not me, him. I mean da Vinci should definitely be dating other people.”

Anh made a sour face. “Not in this day and age. All those diseases. Besides, who cares? What difference does it make if you're exclusive?”

I wiped my greasy fingers on my jeans-not mom jeans, but cool ones I'd picked up at Abercrombie the day before, proof I obviously did care. “Well, because I don't want him to become too emotionally attached.”

“Him or you?”

“So what if I don't want to fall for him and get my heart broken when he dumps me for a younger coed? That makes me a normal woman. And I'm not ready for a serious relationship, anyway. I can't have my boys believing da Vinci is my boyfriend. What would they think? That he'll be their next daddy? It's ludicrous. Preposterous. Ridiculously absurd. Besides, I think about Monica Blevins more than I think about da Vinci. How screwed up is that?”