I don’t want to play this game anymore.
I resolve to be real. To be truly vulnerable once again. And why wait till the end of the night? I could say something right now. Tell him I don’t want to go our separate ways.
I turn to him. “Gabe—”
But he’s already leaning across the console, brushing a chaste kiss to my cheek, shutting me up. “It’s our last night. We’ve been practicing all week. Like the song says, you’ve got this,” he says, then pats the dashboard and jumps out of the car.
Resolute.
Confident.
He’s a badass dude strutting away from scoring a touchdown, ready for the next play.
When all I can hear isLast night, last night, last night.
Everything I was going to say lodges in my throat as he comes around to the driver’s side and opens my door.
I step out, bewildered and off-balance.
Was that heavy-handed reminder necessary? And in that cocky tone too.
Grabbing the gift I bought for Aunt Tilly from the back seat, along with the lemonade for Mom, I head up the steps, aching everywhere.
I was foolishly hoping he might want more too.
But this was only ever a fling.
When my mom sweeps open the door, I give her a big and necessary hug. It’s good to be home. It’s good to see her especially as I hold back the knot of emotions in my throat.
25
CROQUET OOMPH
Gabe
This sucks.
I nurse a cup of pink lemonade and tap a purple ball with a wooden mallet.
The ball rolls painfully slowly as my dad, alongside Ellie’s, flips beef and veggie burgers on the grill.
My mom chuckles then shakes her head. “Gabe, hon, you have to hit it harder.”
“Surely, you can put some more oomph into lawn croquet,” Ellie’s mom encourages.
“Normally, you’re such a pro at this,” Tilly weighs in.
Gee. Anyone else want to comment on my shitty technique?
I don’t need advice. I know the reason for my poor performance. I’ve been distracted by my sullen mood.
It’s not Mom’s fault. Or Mrs. Snow’s. Or Tilly’s.
Hell, it’s hardly Ellie’s fault.
It’s fucking fate’s fault.
Nope. That’s wrong. It’s my fault.