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.
7
WEIRDLY, IT’S THE CHRISTMAS SEASON.
I don’t feel all that festive, so after a shift spent pulling espresso shots at True Brew the day after Thanksgiving, I do the one thing sure to make me merry: descend into a baking vortex.
A few of my favorite ingredients: toasted coconut, bittersweet chocolate chips, pecans, overripe bananas, and butter. Every respectable treat involves a stick or two of butter—and not that fake, chemically processed yellow paste. It’s got to be the good stuff. Unsalted, full-fat butter. I drop a room-temperature stick into a stainless-steel mixing bowl, add sugar, then blend until light and fluffy.
Time in the kitchen is how I reclaim my center, and it just so happens Meredith has a slew of treat requests for tonight’s annual Bunco party. Before she married my dad and became Queen of Conception, she was big on volunteer work, and he’s a proud member of the city council. All this McAlder community involvement equals dozens of people showing up at our house the night after Thanksgiving to play the world’s most obnoxious dice game while drinking too much.
Far be it from me to deny the masses my delicacies.
I’ve found my happy place. Flour, eggshells, and butter wrappers are strewn over every inch of counter space, and the smells of chocolate and almond and spice dance in the air. The stove’s timer sounds. I open the door and spend a moment admiring my beautiful snowflake sugar cookies—meticulously cut and light golden brown—before gripping the edge of my favorite Williams-Sonoma baking sheet and lifting them from the oven.
Heat radiates into my fingers, conducted splendidly by a pot holder recently crocheted by my stepmother. My brain registers the pain a second too late and I yelp, dropping the baking sheet onto the countertop. It lands with a metallic clatter that echoes through the house.
I assess my fingers—red and throbbing, damn it—and then the cookies. Five of the dozen confections have fractured into jagged, unrecognizable bits. Clenching my teeth against pain and exasperation, I turn on the faucet and run cold water over my tender skin, cursing Meredith and her stupid Holly Hobbie pot holder.
She wobbles into the kitchen, probably drawn by my silent snark. Her volleyball belly has thrown her petite frame into a constant state of unbalance since it popped (her word, not mine) just after Halloween. She’s dressed in coordinating sweats, and when I say “sweats,” I mean expensive leisurewear from Nordstrom in a soft shade of pink, the only color she wears lately, because when you’re expecting a baby girl, you must constantly dress like a puff of cotton candy. She asks, “Everything okay?”
I turn off the water and hold up her pot holder. “Did you know this is ineffective?”
She blinks. “It’s pretty.”
My pulse throbs in my fingertips. I hold them up to show her. “Pretty doesn’t equal practical. What’s the point of a nonfunctioning pot holder?”