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“Uh. Yeah. Thanks,” the server says.

Marcus drapes his arm around the server’s shoulder and I snap a few pictures.

After we’re seated again, we put in our orders. I get the Fork and Fiddle Double Griddle.

Marcus’s eyes bug out a little as if he can’t believe I’m ordering a double cheeseburger with all the fixings.

“Got a problem, QB?”

“Nope.”

He orders a steak, baked potato, salad and vegetables.

The waiter leaves, smiling widely.

I’m about to bring up the upcoming season. It’s probably the only subject we have in common, but Marcus leads the conversation with, “So … Porch Light?”

He takes a sip of his water, staring at me over the rim. I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

“Yes.” My charity is the absolute last thing I want to talk about with Marcus.

He sits back and says, “Impressive,” in a way that makes me almost wonder if he’s mocking me.

So, I call him out. I know he’s not used to people second-guessing him. I’ve been around the players and him enough to watch the way they defer to him. They might occasionally tease him, but no one questions him, even when he’s being arrogant or bossy.

“You're not impressed?” I ask.

His eyes narrow slightly, like he’s sizing me up. He doesn’t like me calling him out.

“No. I am impressed,” he says, his southern Mississippi drawl getting a little thicker with his irritation.

“Exactly what impresses you?” I ask.

In other words, he can put his money where his mouth is. If he’s so impressed, he surely can tell me something specific that impresses him.

He doesn’t even miss a beat. “Not even our PR team comes up with opportunities like this.”

Just as I thought. He sees Porch Light as a publicity move for the team—maybe most importantly, for him. Improving his image is high on his priority list. And while I understand how important that is to him, Porch Light exists to serve families in need, not to bolster the public image of our local quarterback.

I resolve right then that I have to find a way to keep Marcus far from the charity events I have planned with Thunder player participation.

“So, you like that this will shine a good light on the Thunder?” I clarify, just to be certain. Winona would tell me to give him a chance to redeem himself, so I do.

“I like the Thunder being involved,” Marcus answers, his voice all maple syrup and butter on warm biscuits.

He’s got an extremely nice voice. Smooth, deep, almost melodic. It’s his choice of words that go down like swallowing thumbtacks.

He falls silent, sitting back in his seat and extending his legs. My under-table space is crowded. It reminds me of summers when our parents would take us to Dollywood. Mom would turn around and run her finger down the middle of the bench seat creating an invisible dividing line. She’d say, “This is your side, Cass. And Winona, this is yours. If you two want some of Dolly’s cinnamon bread, you stay on your sides.”

I spent every minute of my first nine months of life wrapped in a womb with my sister. Keeping our hands to ourselves was extra challenging on those long car rides, but for cinnamon bread, we managed. Maybe I should bribe Marcus with some cinnamon bread. Or, I could stomp on his foot.

I do neither.

A member of the wait staff places a basket of warm bread—not the cinnamon kind—on the table between us. I grab a roll, butter it and take a giant bite.

Then we sit there in the awkward silence stretching between us.

Marcus’s leg occasionally bumps mine. I have a visceral reaction of those weird tingles every time. I never knew my nerves were so damaged.