It doesn’t work and neither will my hand if she doesn’t stop squeezing it so tight.
“Ouch!”
“Oh shit, sorry,” she apologizes as I shake out my wrist. Some feeling starting to slowly come back now that she isn’t death gripping it.
Coach blows his whistle again. Hailey’s face zeroing below.
Finn winks, finally getting the hint as he backpedals onto the polished floors. She goes her own way, adding a little extra sway to her hips.
I have the urge to stand up and yell, “Finally, you moron.” But I bite the inside of my cheek raw instead.
The dumbass could be a walking ad for syphilis.
“Are you okay?” I ask, looking back over at Hailey with concern.
“Yeah, fine.” Her words carry a bite.
I shake out my wrist again, trying to gain more feeling. Letting her be because we all know what that word really means. Hailey is definitelynotfine.
The question is, is she the one who wants this friendship, or is he?
seventeen
Rory
Then…
Birthdaysdon’texistwithinmy household, so it’s strange to see Lillian act, yet alone, have so much energy.
Not only is she out of bed—that alone surprising in itself—but she also has a pep in her step. She seems refreshed, awake. The most alive I’ve seen her in years as she stands with her back to me cooking breakfast.
The clothes she has on look new. But that’s not saying a lot. Anything other than sweats is an upgrade. She’s also styled her hair or ran a brush through it so that it doesn’t look as knotty.
This shouldn’t put me on edge, but it does, because this isn’t normal. This isn’tournormal. She does remember what day it is, right?
“Happy seventh birthday, my darling daughter!” Lillian delights in a singsongy fashion as I take my seat.
The deep aroma of ground-up coffee beans combined with a cinnamon sweetness wafts past my nostrils.French toast?
Setting down a stack, she rests her hip on the counter, holding a cup between her hands.
“Is it good?” she asks eagerly, after I take a syrupy bite.
I swallow it down not because it isn’t good but because she’s too restless, antsy. Something about this isn’t right.
A six, basically seven-year-old shouldn’t have these thoughts running through their head. I, unfortunately, have never been raised like most.
Usually, I’m the one making her breakfast before I leave for school. She almost never eats it and I’d find it on her dresser the same as I left it. Tossing out the single piece of toast only to replace it with another the next morning.
This,her, a far cry from my normal.
I set down my fork. “It’s great. Thanks.” Forcing out a smile because she looks in desperate need of reassurance.
It does the trick, and she buys it. Tossing another piece of eggy, sugared bread into her pan for herself.
Is she humming?
“Know what I think?” she asks, taking a seat beside me after it’s done.