Broken Beautiful Hearts

1. When the Stars Align

I believe everything happens for a reason and usually the reason sucks. I also believe the laces from my eighth-grade cleats are good luck, Adele is the most talented singer to ever walk the earth, and popcorn without butter is just corn.

But more than any of those things, I believe that if you're lucky - at least once in your life - you might have a perfect day. A day when all the stars in your personal universe align and your dreams seem possible.

The crazy part?
I think today might be mine.
Except dad isn't here.
The thought bears down on me, but I pushed back against it.

Today might be the only perfect day I'll ever get. Dad won't want me to waste it. I pick up the letter on my desk and reread it for the 10th time since it arrived yesterday.

Dear Miss Rios,
        After careful consideration, the woman's soccer staff at the University of North Carolina at chapel Hill believes that you have the qualities we are looking for in a student-athlete. As the head woman's soccer coach at this university, I want to formally offer you early acceptance and an opportunity to play soccer for the team that has won 21 out of 35 NCAA national championships.
       Please understand that this acceptance is contigent upon you:
*Maintaining the recommendation of your high school coach
*Remaining and good academic standing
*Continuing to demonstrate strong leadership and soccer skills
*Playing your current position, center forward, next fall.

I've wanted this for as long as I can remember, but now that it's actually happening, it doesn't feel real.

"Peyton?" Mom calls from downstairs.
"Coming." I fold the letter and tuck it in my bag.
I gather my dark, wavy hair into a ponytail, and pull it through and elastic, and take a quick look in the mirror. My wardrobe consists of a steady rotation of skinny jeans and cargoes that show off my long legs, layered tanks and fitted Henley's, and ankle boots. Today is no exception.

I do my standard 2-minute makeup application - concealer under my eyes and very dash tinted lip balm that doubles as blush.

Now I just have to find my black boots.
"You're going to be late," Mom yells.
"Coming!" I've been down to check under my bed - a pair of balled-up soccer socks; My elementary school yearbook; a bottle of nail polish; old issues of soccer 360; a lunar bar that's hard enough to use as a hammer so my colon and... My boots. I dried them out by the laces and put them on.

Dad's dog tags slide back and forth on the silver chain hanging around my neck. I never take them off. When I insisted on wearing them to the Spring Fling with my strapless dress, mom figured out how to pin the tags inside my dress so they wouldn't be as noticeable. I would have worn them either way.

On the way out, I grabbed the black leather jacket draped over the chair next to my door, under poster of my soccer idol, Alex Morgan. The jack have belonged to my dad. I slip it on. The sleeves hang past my fingertips and the leather is cracked, but I love it anyway.

A job down the steps and walk into the kitchen.
Mom holds up a brown muffin. "Do you want one to take with you?"
"Not if it has oats, nuts, dried fruit, or seeds in it."

She breaks the muffin and half, which take some effort cuz it's as dense as a hunk of fruit cake. Dad used to do all the cooking. He was Cuban and every morning he started off with café con leché - Strong Cuban coffee with steamed milk - and thick toast with butter.

After he died I took over the cooking, but I couldn't bring myself to keep eating the same breakfast daddy used to make me. Now Mama's determined to learn to cook too. Muffins are her latest experiment.

I rummage through the pantry. " Do we have any donuts? "
"Donuts are pure sugar. They don't qualify as breakfast." She pours a cup of coffee and hands it to me.
I add milk and sugar. "Then why did donut shops open at 5:00 in the morning?"