Instead I squeezed his hand and stepped away. “As long as you understand I’m being honest when I say—”
“I understand.” His smile was contagious. “I’d better go before you change your mind. See you in the morning.”
I watched him walk to his car, saw the fist pump he made in the darkness. He pulled out of the driveway and his taillights were swallowed by the night, leaving me wondering what I’d agreed to.
I was still standing by the door when Mom’s self-satisfied voice drifted from the kitchen, catching my attention. “That went well.”
“Think so?” asked Dad.
“Yes. No thanks to you. Hon, I can’t believe you gave the boy homework! He wants to date our daughter, not write a research paper on the horrors of cancer.” But she was laughing now.
“He asked for the books,” Dad answered. Through the doorway I could see him take the dishtowel out of Mom’s hands and put his arms around her. “And if he makes Mia happy …”
“Of course he does.” She tipped her forehead against his chest. “I was so worried how he’d react. So worried. If he rejected her …”
“But he didn’t. And remember, Gyver didn’t either.”
Mom shrugged this off. “She reminds me so much of me at her age—and Ryan’s exactly the type of guy I dated.”
“Hmm,” Dad muttered into Mom’s hair. “This was before you wised up and decided that geeks were far superior to jocks, right?”
“Far superior,” she echoed, kissing him. “She’s going to be okay.”
“She’s going to be okay,” he repeated, sounding far more confident than she did.
Mom kissed him again.
I was spared from having to slink up the stairs or witness any more embarrassing moments because Dad whispered something in her ear and she laughed and followed him out the back door to his telescope shed. Some small part of me felt left out. I was missing something I hadn’t thought of in years: the nights we had all spent watching Dad chart stars and show us things through his telescope: me truly interested and Mom pretending to be.
They’d left the sink half-full of plates, cups, and silverware. I hadn’t done anything else productive today; I could handle rinsing them off and loading the dishwasher.
Maybe. It was such a small word, but it had made Ryan and Mom so happy. Maybe a smaller word, maybe yes, would make me happy too.
But everything seemed so fragile in this week before I went back to the hospital for more chemo—and it felt like if I changed too much, everything would collapse like a game of Jenga, or pop like the soap bubbles in the sink.
I slid the last plate into the dishwasher and shut it. Pressed the button to start the wash cycle and dried my hands on my pajama pants.
Just because Ryan had handled the news didn’t mean everyone could. I wasn’t willing to take that risk.
Chapter 22
I thought Ally was driving me home, but when we crowded back into the locker room after practice, the plan changed with last-minute group momentum.
“The boys’ soccer game is about to start,” she said with a sly smile.
“And we haven’t been to any of their games. It’s not good if we just support the football team.” Lauren grinned at Ally.
Hil rolled her eyes. I continued to sit on the locker-room bench, trying to gather the energy to object. “Didn’t they just have a game yesterday?”
“It’s a rain make-up,” answered Ally.
“I’m tired. Can’t we do this another day?” I asked.
“But I already told him you’d be there. Please? Pretty please?”
Hil came to stand next to me. “She said no.”
“Boo.” Ally pouted. “Don’t be like that, it’ll be fun.”
Lauren nudged my shoulder. “You know you want to see Ryan all sweaty.”
“Am I the only one noticing she looks exhausted?” asked Hil. To me, she said, “I’ll take you home.”
“No, it’s fine. I’ll go,” I said. I didn’t want to be that transparently ill. If I left now it would only raise questions, so I conceded. “Thanks though, Hil.”
Hil slammed her locker but stayed quiet. Whatever Ally had said to her had worked; she hadn’t given me crap about Ryan since the first day of school. Though if she’d known about our conversation last night, I’m sure she’d have plenty to say.
We hiked up the hill to the soccer field where a section of the bleachers was saved for us in the center of the front row—directly behind the bench.
His team was already huddled on the field, but Ryan broke away, jogged toward the bench, took a swig from a water bottle, and—just before he sprinted back to the group—winked at me.
Once the game started, it seemed safe to admire Ryan from afar … until he scored a goal. As the crowd cheered, Ryan turned my direction. Placing one hand on his chest—over his heart—he pointed the other at me. Or he did until Bill and Chris piled on his back with whoops and smacks. Any chance I’d remain unidentified as his target vanished when Lauren stood up and pointed at me too. The crowd awwww’d and a woman leaned forward to ask, “Is that your boyfriend, dear?”