A World Cup Without You

The night before the World Cup, Reid Callister made a post on social media. In the photo, he wore a Portugal jersey and was smiling at the woman beside him. He had written something sweet: [Officially done with Argentina. It's all Ronaldo from here.]

Our mutual friends all went quiet. Everyone knew that the night Argentina won the championship four years ago, he had cried in my arms until dawn. That was also the night he slipped a ring onto my finger.

He said, "Messi got his fairy tale. Let's go get ours."

Someone in the comments section asked what happened to his Messi obsession. He replied, "I was young and stupid back then. Now, I know who's worth rooting for."

I stared at the post for a long time. I did not comment. I just set down the divorce papers on the coffee table. Before I left for my flight, I tucked the ring into the pocket of his blue-and-white jersey. This time, I would not be watching the game with him.

"Ronaldo's definitely starting this time. I'll bring your player-issue jersey over tomorrow."

Reid Callister pushed the front door open with his phone to his ear, grinning widely. His voice was bright with excitement.

I sat on the couch with the glow of my phone screen washing over my face. On it was the social media post Reid had put up ten minutes ago.

"Why are you still up?"

He kicked off his shoes and walked over, tossing his car keys onto the entryway table. When he saw me sitting in the dark, he came over and switched on the floor lamp. The warm yellow light stung my eyes.

"What are you looking at?"

He sat down beside me, easy and familiar, and reached to drape his arm around my shoulders. I shifted slightly, pulling away from his touch. His hand froze in midair, and his brow creased.

"Your post."

Reid paused for a beat, then pulled his hand back and loosened his tie.

"Oh, that." His tone was flat, dismissive. "Nola just got back to the country. She dragged me into watching the game with her. She's into Ronaldo. The post was just for fun."

He softened his voice the way someone would with a child throwing a tantrum. "It's just switching teams. I'm trying something new."

"Trying something new?"

"Yeah. You don't even follow football. Every time I ask you to watch, you fall asleep."

He leaned back against the couch and pressed his fingers between his brows. "Nola actually gets it. She's easy to talk to about this stuff. Don't overthink it."

He always did this. He would pass off his favoritism as reason and deliver it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, acting like everything I had ever done for him meant nothing because I was simply clueless.

Four years ago, I stayed up three nights in a row studying the teams so that I could watch that game with him. I memorized the name and position of every player on the Argentine roster. I even went to every store in the city to find the jersey he wanted.

Now, he was telling me I did not understand football.

"Nola was abroad for four years. She just got back and doesn't really know anyone here."

When I stayed quiet, Reid softened further and reached for my wrist. "I'm just being a good host, helping her settle back in. You're usually so easygoing about this stuff. What's gotten into you?"

His palm was warm against my skin, but all I felt was cold.

Nola Carver was not just someone Reid had grown up with. She was his first love.

Four years ago, she announced her engagement abroad, loudly and publicly. That same night, Reid got completely drunk and sobbed in my arms like his world was ending. I just thought he was overcome by Messi's championship win.

Then, a few days ago, Nola sent me a screenshot. It was a text Reid had sent her that night four years ago.

[You win. I'll just marry whoever. Be happy.]

The proposal that had moved everyone who witnessed it was nothing more than a tantrum thrown by a man who had just lost the woman he really loved. I was just the placeholder, the one he was using to fill the empty space.

"I'm not making a fuss." I slowly pulled my hand free.

Reid stared at his empty palm, irritation flickering across his face. "If you're not making a fuss, then what's with the cold shoulder?"

He let out a sigh as he continued, "I've got an early meeting at the office tomorrow and a game to watch the night after. I don't have the energy to argue with you. Just go to bed. Stop making things up in your head."

He stood and walked straight to the bathroom without a single explanation, without even asking why I was sitting alone in the living room in the middle of the night.

The sound of running water drifted from the bathroom. Just then, my phone buzzed. It was a message from Nola, containing a photo of Reid standing at a store counter with his head bowed, picking out a Portugal jersey.

The caption read: [He said he spent years wearing the wrong colors and now, he's finally switching back. Don't you think it's time you gave up a seat that was never yours, Ms. Whitley?]

I looked at the screen. I did not reply, and I did not block her. I just turned my phone facedown on the table.

The flight was already booked. It would leave in two nights, one hour before kickoff.

Reid said he did not know any better back then. That was fine. After this, everything would be fine again.