That day was the best. We arrived at the stadium early to tailgate. Everybody was decked out in green and gold. Dad and I made burgers and brats on the grill. As we looked at the spreads around us—people grilling lobsters and steaks, one group had a long table full of only appetizers: dips, sausages, cheese, maybe a vegetable (probably not)—Dad declared us “amateurs.” He went over to the “pros” to get some tips, and we were invited to join them.

“I’ll distract them while you steal the rest of the pan,” Dad joked when he noticed that I’d devoured almost the entire batch of this one dip. I don’t know what it was, but it was cheesy and gooey and possibly the greatest thing I’ve ever eaten. “Your ability to put away food is definitely one of the top five reasons why I’m proud to be your father.”

“What’s number one?” I had asked.

“Putting up with your pops.”

“I really should be given some medal for that,” I had fired back, to which we both laughed, as we did, indeed, finish the rest of that dip.

“Ah, Lambeau,” Craig replies to me now, taking away a good memory and forcing me back to this painful reality. “I’ve heard that you haven’t seen a game until you see one in Green Bay.”

“Yeah. It’s amazing.”

He smiles. I’m starting to warm up to him. He’s trying, so I’m going to make an effort. “Well, I guess we’ll have to go sometime.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Paula continues her role as General Buzzkill.

Does she really expect me to not go back to Wisconsin at some point?

“Anyway”—she changes the subject—“we don’t feel that you should go to school right away. Maybe once the new year starts. Whenever you’re ready.”

I look out the window as bitterness slowly creeps into my veins. Sure, sure, I can take my time. No rush. Whenever I’m ready. Where was this patience before I was forced to move to Florida?

Not like I would ever be ready for this, but still.

The ground gets closer and closer. The wheels touch down on the runway. My heart begins to race as the plane slows. We’re here.

Nothing is ever going to be the same again.

Paula turns her phone on. “This reminds me—we need to get you a new phone.” She has the latest iPhone and didn’t hide how horrified she was by my phone. I don’t want a new one. But if I get a smartphone, it’ll be easier to stay in touch with everybody. Although the thought of seeing pictures of my friends continuing their lives without me may be a bit too much to handle.

How long before their lives go back to normal? How long before they forget me?