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“Look, it’s good practice. It’sjust a little snow, not a bad blizzard. Besides, if we arrive andany of my family see me driving, neither you nor I will ever hearthe end of it.”
He nods, then pulls out of thegarage. We ride on the streets for a few minutes, then merge ontothe freeway.
“Roxie…” he says, voice lower thanusual.
“No.” I shake my head and turnaway from him. “I told you I didn’t want to talk about thething.”
“I just wanted to tell you I amreally sorry.”
“I know you are. I just … can’t.Let’s keep it light for now, please. I’m anxious enough about myfolks.”
“Okay. Whatever you need.”
We ride in silence for a fewminutes. I try to find something for us to listen to on the radio,but it’s all commercials, so I groan in frustration and giveup.
“So what I am to you?” he asks.When I shoot him a dismayed look, he clarifies. “In your family’seyes, I mean.”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I keepsaying you’re a friend, but I don’t think Mom believes it, givenhow much she’s been pestering me over text the last few weeks.”
“So she thinks I’m yourboyfriend?
“I’d say we keep saying we’re goodfriends, and you’re my neighbor, and let them infer whatever theywant.”
“Am I allowed to touch you? Whilewe’re over there?”
I swallow hard. “Within reason. Nogroping, obviously. But don’t avoid me like I’m a leper. That wouldbe weird.”
He chuckles. “Got it. Althoughit’s funny that we have to put on an act to endure visits with bothsets of parents.”
“No idea what you’re talkingabout,” I say, rolling my eyes in mock disbelief.
He laughs and I feel my bodyunclench. Good. This is good. It will be okay.
“Tell me what to expect,” he says.“Who am I going to meet? What are they like?”
I smile and start talking. “Well,the people you will meet are Mom and Dad, my older brother Willwith his family, and my younger sister Malorie with hers. Mom goesby Mary, but it’s short for Maryam. She’s a nurse. Dad is Patrickand he’s an electrician. Will is an engineer with two kids, andlives in Kalamazoo, Michigan. Malorie is a stay-at-home mom ofthree and lives in Appleton. Both siblings do Thanksgiving with ourfolks, but Christmas with the other in-laws. Which is whyThanksgiving is a big deal.”
We chat and joke the rest of theway, and the air feels light, almost as if there weren’t a giantheartbroken elephant riding with us, taking up the whole backseat.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chris
Roxie’s childhood home in EauClaire, Wisconsin, is a single-story house with mustard-yellowsiding. Surrounding it, there is a lawn, a flower bed, someperennials, and a literal white picket fence. There’s a US flagoutside their home and many others in the neighborhood.
Everything is covered in half afoot of snow, and the weather is getting worse. We arrive a littlebefore dinner, which Roxie has planned to minimize the need tostand around uselessly while her mom does everything. The house isfull, with a bunch of kids running around. The family hug or kissRoxie on the cheek—they welcome me warmly and politely, and withmore than a little curiosity.
It isn’t long before we are readyto eat. I am seated next to Roxie and near the head of thetable.
“So, how’d you and Roxie meet?”Her dad Patrick asks as he carves the turkey. He’s the one Roxiegets her height from—he’s about 6’7” and long-limbed, with blueeyes and hair that was probably once blond, but is now gray.Dressed in a flannel shirt and jeans, he’s a bit hunched over dueto age, but by all appearances in excellent health.
“Oh, we actually met in college,”I say. “Sophomore year.”
“That’s when she stopped playing,”Will chimes in. He’s quite a bit shorter than his dad, butotherwise resembles him in facial features, complexion, and haircolor.
Next to me, Roxie stiffens at herbrother’s remark.
“I still think it’s a damn shamethat she stopped playing. Damn shame,” says Roxie’s dad. “She gaveit all up too easily. A full ride and playing professionally, allthrough the window.”
