I WAKE UP TO A blast of overhead lights. Mom pries the pillow off my face.
“What day is it?” I mumble.
“Saturday. Come on. Wells is on his way.”
“What?” I sit up straight, pillow sliding to the floor. “I said no to that.”
“I know. But I looked up the soccer schedule, and we’ll be back by then anyway. Wells has tee time at two.”
“What the fuck is tee time?” I rub my face and tug my phone out of the charger. “It’s not even ten a.m.”
Mom sits on the edge of my bed, and I tuck my legs up instantly, hugging them.
“I’m not going,” I tell her.
“Leah, this isn’t a question. I want you to do this. It would mean a lot to him.”
“I don’t care.”
“Well, it would mean a lot to me, too.”
I glare up at her.
She puts her hands up. “Look, okay. I don’t know what to tell you. He’s coming over. It’s his birthday, and I already made the reservation. So you can start by putting on a bra.”
I flop backward on my bed, yanking the pillow back over my face.
An hour later, I’m tucked into a booth at a steakhouse in Buckhead, next to Mom and across from Wells. A steakhouse. It’s not even noon.
We put in our drink order, and Wells jumps right into the forced small talk. “So, your mom tells me you’re in a band.”
“Yup.”
“Nice. I used to play the clarinet.” He nods eagerly. “Good times, good times.”
I don’t even know how to respond to that. Like, I’m in an actual band, Wells. I’m not saying we’re the Beatles, but we’re not exactly honking our way through “Hot Cross Buns” in the school auditorium.
“Wells is a huge music fan,” Mom says, patting his arm. I cringe every time she touches him. “What’s the name of that singer you like?” Mom asks him. “The one from American Idol?”
“Oh, you mean Daughtry?”
Daughtry. I’m not even surprised. But wow—Mom should know better. If she wants me to respect this guy, she should have kept that detail under wraps.
“Have you heard of Oh Wonder?” I ask, even though I know he hasn’t. It is physically, chemically impossible for a person who likes Daughtry to have heard of Oh Wonder. But I want to see if he’ll admit it. Maybe I’m a dick, but this is how I test people. I never judge someone for not knowing a band. I only judge the ones who try to fake it.
“No, I haven’t. Is that a band or a singer?” He pulls out his phone. “I’ll write that down. Oh Wonder—two words?”
So he’s honest. I guess that’s something.
“They’re a band.”
“Are they anything like Stevie Wonder?”
I bite back a laugh. “Not really.” I glance up at Mom and catch her smiling.
Confession: I think Stevie Wonder rules. That’s probably not cool to admit, but whatever. Apparently, my parents used to play me “Signed, Sealed, Delivered (I’m Yours)” on their old-timey CD player, even before I was born. I think my mom read somewhere that I’d be able to hear it in utero. And I guess it worked, because I used to sing it around the house and in the grocery store. And even now, that song makes me calm in a way I can’t explain. My mom said they picked it because it was the one song she and my dad agreed they’d be willing to listen to over and over, every day, for the rest of their lives.
The rest of their lives. Look how quickly that blew up in their faces. Just thinking about it hurts in a way I can’t quite pinpoint.
We split a massive pile of designer tortilla chips with spinach and queso, and everything’s sort of okay for a minute. Mom and Wells are talking about work, so I pull out my phone. I’ve missed a few texts.
From Anna: Ugh, so Morgan’s REALLY upset.
From Garrett: You should totally wear this today. Laughing-crying emoji. He’s attached a picture of a girl wearing what appears to be a helmet cut out of a soccer ball. With holes on the sides. And pigtails. Through the holes.
Obviously happening, I reply.
Then I turn back to Anna’s text. I guess I’m kind of at a loss. Like, I don’t want to be a negligent friend, but I don’t know how to help Morgan if I can’t even talk to her. I think I hate the concept of needing space. What it really means is that the person’s mad at you, or hates you, or doesn’t give a shit about you. They just don’t want to admit it. Like my dad. That’s just how he put it. He needed space from my mom. And now here we are, almost seven years later, at a steakhouse with fucking Wells.
Show her the video where the dog’s owner dresses like Gumby, I write finally.
GENIUS, Anna replies.
“Sweetie, put your phone away, please. We’re in a restaurant.”
“Seriously?” I point my chin toward Wells. “He’s literally on his phone right now.”
Mom narrows her eyes. “He’s confirming his tee time.”
“Oh, right. So it’s like a golf emergency.”
“Leah.”
“I mean, clearly, it’s so urgent, or he wouldn’t be—gasp—on his phone in a restaurant.”
“Don’t be an asshole,” she hisses, leaning toward me. “It’s his birthday.”
I shrug and press my lips together like I don’t give any shits at all, but there’s this tug in my chest. Because birthdays are sort of sacred, and maybe I really am an asshole. I’d been thinking of Wells as the interloper, busting in on my Mom brunch with his tiny ears and his Daughtry love. But maybe I’m the one crashing the party.
Wells ends the call, turns to Mom, and starts babbling about handicaps on the birdie par or some other golfy bullshit. I let my eyes drift shut.
I mean, parents sometimes date people. I know this. Moms are technically human beings, and human beings are allowed to have romantic lives. But I have this feeling, suddenly, that I’m on a too-fast treadmill—like things are moving so quickly, I might slide off the back end. I never imagined I could be bumped out of my own family. I feel knocked down.
I feel demoted.
And the thought makes me so tired, I can barely sit upright. Like, even the thought of walking to the car feels like prepping for a marathon. And it’s barely past noon. All I want is to collapse on my bed. Possibly with music. Definitely not with real pants on.
I can’t go to the game. Not feeling the way I feel right now. I can’t deal with Garrett and his try-hard, dudebro act. Like, we all know you’re secretly a dreamy-eyed piano kid, so stop pretending to be a douchebag. And stop messing with my head. Either flirt with me or don’t. Either be cute or not.
I don’t know. I don’t have the energy for Garrett. That probably makes me a jerk, and I should clearly text him an excuse, but I don’t even know what I’d say. Sorry to miss the game, Garrett. Turns out, you’re confusing and annoying and I kind of can’t deal with your face. I just can’t. Not today.
Mom asks me, hours later, if I need a ride to the game.
I say no.
Then I ignore six texts in a row, all from Garrett.