NOVEMBER DRAGS ON, A BLUR OF MIDTERMS and True Brew shifts. I stay well clear of the Holdens’ house, and when I see Becky sashaying down the hallways at school, I avoid her, too.
I can’t avoid Dad and Meredith, though—not when their late-night squabbles filter through the walls of my bedroom. She bugs him about his increasing workload, and he carps about her spending unnecessary money. When it’s daylight and I can’t give them the wide berth they’ve come to deserve, they nag me: Why can’t I help out around the house more?
It’s thanks to my parents that I accept Leah’s invitation to watch one of the boys’ districts-prep football practices on a rare afternoon off from True Brew. The weather’s not atrocious, especially for mid-November, and time with her’s infinitely better than time at home. We make camp on the rickety bleachers that line the practice field and catch up to the background clamor of colliding helmets and combative grunts.
More than once, I find my gaze traveling to the field, to number eighty, to Max.
He’s always been intense about football, and he’s so good. He catches everything thrown his way, and he runs the ball like a dolphin cutting complex paths through choppy water: innate, fluid, effortless. Of course, that makes his being benched during last week’s final regular-season game (because he lost his shit after a questionable call and got in a referee’s face) even harder to swallow. But while he was on the field? Flawless.
Leah’s my ride home, so I’m stuck waiting outside the locker room with her after practice because she just has to tell Jesse what an extraordinary job he did. I make sure to hang back behind her as the team files out—lugging gym bags and smelling collectively of Irish Spring—hidden, should Max emerge before Jesse. But Kyle beats them both, hooking his arms around Leah and me like it’s been weeks rather than hours since he last saw us.
“You came!” he says, tossing his head back theatrically. “And to a mere practice!”
“I’ve come to plenty of practices,” Leah says.
“But Jelly Bean hasn’t.”
“I come to all the home games—just to watch you call perfectly executed plays and drop neat passes into waiting hands.”
He grins. “And that’s why you’re the best.”
But I’m not—not really. Outside of work, I haven’t seen as much of Kyle as I’d like. I’ve been dodging him at school because he’s almost always with Max, and I’ve been keeping an enormous secret from him. Leah, too. Neither of them knows about the Halloween kiss, mostly because I’m too mortified to talk about it, and also because I told Max I’d keep it to myself. Becky’d yank my hair out in tufts if she knew my mouth had been anywhere near her boyfriend’s. Besides, like Max said, it wasn’t a big deal.
Only, maybe it was kind of a big deal.… Otherwise, wouldn’t I have forgotten about it by now, like he apparently has?
Finally, Jesse comes banging out of the locker room. Leah bails on Kyle and me to disappear around the corner with him, and I’m quietly thankful for their consideration. The thought of watching them get all lovey-dovey makes my heart shrivel. Truth is, sometimes I covet what they have: a relationship that’s easy, and natural, and mutually beneficial.
I’ve never had that. I’ve never even cared about that, until …
I pull my ponytail free, letting my hair fall around my face. Then I cross my arms, like it’s possible to physically shield myself from these thoughts, these memories of that night.
“What’s up?” Kyle asks, dropping his bag, leaning up against the wall.
I join him, propping a foot on the brick. “Nothing of importance.”
“Really seems like you’ve got something on your mind.”
I have a lot of somethings on my mind, actually, but none fit for sharing. “Oh, you know,” I say noncommittally.
“No, I don’t.” He gives me a side-eye glance, whistling the chorus of “That’s What Friends Are For.” I laugh, and he smiles. “Seriously, you can talk to me, Jill.”
“I know, it’s just that—”
The locker room door opens and Max strides out, shouldering a loaded gym bag. He’s clearly surprised to see me. “Oh. Hey.”
“Hey,” I say, wondering if my voice sounds as high, as nervous, as it does echoing in my ears.
“Good practice, dude,” Kyle tells him.
“Yeah. Thanks. You, too.” A thorny silence passes before he tacks on, “What’re you doing here, Jill?”
I clear my throat. “Tagging along with Leah. She wanted to watch Jesse.” I definitely did not want to watch you, I mentally add, pushing my shoulders back.
He’s looking at me; I’m staring at the floor, but I feel his attention like a gust of cold air, and I have a million regrets about agreeing to come to this practice, not to mention hang out after. How is it that this boy’s able to burrow so deep under my skin?
But then—who’s he to act so chilly? He’s the maker of his own destiny, and he’s chosen to be with Becky, even though it’s dazzlingly obvious to any lucid thinker that they make each other miserable. What’s it to him if I’m here or not?
“Well,” Kyle says with a clap that makes me jump. “This has been a productive chat, but it’s time for me to head out. Jill? You need a ride?”
“I can take her,” Max says. “Because, you know, it wouldn’t be out of the way.”
Kyle blinks at Max, then me, wearing an odd smile. “Or, that could work.”
God. I’m supposed to make a choice?
“I’ve got her,” Leah hollers. She rounds the corner with tousled hair and rosy cheeks. Jesse follows reluctantly. I shudder to think about what this talk of my transportation interrupted, but Leah doesn’t seem to care. She loops an arm through mine, gives the boys a sweet smile, and tugs me down the hall.
Over her shoulder, she calls out an explanation: “Girl time and all.”
* * *
Thanksgiving is kind of a nightmare. My dad goes into work early and doesn’t return until almost four, an hour past when Meredith asked him to be home for our meal. The turkey is dry, and the mashed potatoes are lumpy. I forget to check my pumpkin pie—my beautiful pumpkin pie, with its creamy, spiced filling. Its crust burns, and I end up dumping the whole thing into the trash. Meredith looks close to tears as she excuses herself from the table. Dad shrugs and gives my hair a ruffle before grabbing his laptop, plus the stack of folders he brought home, and retiring to his study.
Tomorrow will be better, I tell myself later, after burrowing beneath my covers.
When sleep doesn’t come, I let myself wonder about the Holdens and their Thanksgiving—their first since Bill’s stroke. In the past, we’ve celebrated together, but this year Marcy opted to break tradition and forgo our joint gathering.
“I just don’t feel right celebrating,” I heard her tell Meredith and another neighbor, Robin Tate, their friend and McAlder’s number one gossip, while the three of them sipped tea in our kitchen last week.
Meredith murmured a response, words too soft to be intelligible, but her tone made her sentiment clear: I don’t, either.