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