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She’s still the same woman who went to my track meets, hugged me tight Christmas morning and signed me up for any hobby that I asked, for any sport that caught my eye. She gave me the fucking world—I was just a little fucking lost inside of it.
I’ll always have those good memories. I just need to hold onto them.
“You coming?!” Lo calls, already at our mailbox, stretching his legs.
“Yeah! Hang on.” My fingers move quickly across the screen.
I’d like that.
I press send and slip the phone back in my pocket. It’s the first text in two years that I’ve replied to, the first hand I’ve extended. Time to start over.
I walk to Lo, and I stretch beside him in the yard, not saying anything at first. But then he speaks up. “So…I watched the interview.”
I don’t look at him. I just sit on the fucking grass and reach out to my shoe, my muscles pulling in taut strands. “Yeah?”
“Was it hard?” he asks.
I stare off, my gaze on the dewy blades of grass, the ground cold in the December morning. A couple weeks ago, I sat down with a reporter.
I tell Lo the honest truth, no lies. “It was one of the hardest days of my fucking life.”
It had been more difficult than climbing three rock faces back to back. More difficult than sitting in a jail cell. More difficult than having a civil lunch with my father.
“You didn’t stutter or anything during it,” Lo says. “Connor was worried you were going to forget your name.”
I laugh lightly. “Yeah…” It’s all I can really say. The reporter, a woman in a sleek gray suit, a microphone attached to her blouse, asked me pointblank what the nation has always wanted to know.
“Did Jonathan Hale ever inappropriately touch Loren?”
I denied every allegation, every claim that painted my dad in a bad light and caused my brother pain.
Lo’s Nike sole knocks into mine as he stretches on the ground too. “You said the hardest things are usually the right things, right?” His brows furrow. I think he’s worried that I’ll regret making a statement to the press.
I don’t.
Not all. The allegations weren’t true. There was no reason to keep quiet other than to punish my father, and I needed to unhook that fucking chain from my ankles. “It was definitely the fucking right thing,” I say with all my confidence.
His shoulders relax. “Thanks,” he says. “I mean it. Not just for this but for taking care of Daisy, for being here for me during these rough months. I take you for granted sometimes, but I never fucking forget that you’re the reason I’m sober.”
I actually smile. I think my face says it all. Sometimes it’s hard to tell that he cares, and when moments like this come, the tough parts don’t seem so fucking bad. It’s worth everything.
We stand at the same time and head to the mailbox again, letting go of the heavy shit before we run.
“Five miles,” Lo says jumping up and down to warm his blood. “You’re not beating me this time, big brother. Watch yourself.”
I stumble on his use of “big brother”—said with endearment. Somewhere along the way, I’ve earned the title. That feels fucking good.
“Hey you, staring off into space, did you hear me?” Lo asks, waving his palm at me.
I smack his hand away. “You have a lacrosse stick lying around? I like my fucking legs, so don’t break them.”
Lo spreads his arms out. “No cheating. Fair race. I expect a fucking trophy when I beat your ass at your own sport.”
“Fat fucking chance.”
And then we both look at each other, no countdown. We just take off at the same time.
Our paces are mimicked. Stride for stride. Leg for leg. Step for fucking step. He runs right beside me, our rhythm exactly the same. He pumps faster, and I push harder. Matched.
My breathing steadies and my head feels light. When I look beside me, for the first time, I don’t see that weight on my brother’s chest. I don’t see anything tugging him backwards.
He’s fucking smiling.
The sun streams through the trees, our distance shortening with each step. Pride, for him, consumes me.
And it’s at four miles in—when he leaves my side and takes five lengthy strides ahead—that I know.
He’s going to outrun me.
DAISY CALLOWAY
“Oh my God, it’s cold,” Lily complains, hugging one of Rose’s white fur coats tighter around her tiny frame. Along with her Wampa cap, she looks like a little furry creature. Totally huggable. Which is why I have an arm around her shoulders, taller than my older sis.
Our breath smokes the air, standing in two feet of snow that blew in yesterday. We hide behind a fir tree in the front lawn. Or as Lily likes to call it: the big ass Christmas tree.
“I agree,” Rose says, so cold that her bones have frozen her into a rigid stance.
“I offered you my sweats,” I remind her. She’s in black tights and a maxi dress that soaks in the snow. Her booties are completely sunken in the white powder. My outfit isn’t better. I slipped on the shoes by the door in my haste to pull my sisters outside quickly.
They were flip-flops.
Let’s just say the chill is most definitely creeping in, and my numb toes scream for a warm bath.
Rose gives me a look at my comment, and I think she would put her palm to my face like don’t even. But she’s too cold to stretch her arms past her sides.
“I promise this is going to be worth the pain,” I say with a big smile. I reach out and shake both of their arms playfully. I love that I have more time left with them, and Lily shares my smile like it’s contagious.
Rose rolls her eyes. But I swear the corner of her lips lift. She takes out her cell, and Lily reaches over me to grab it, but she’s too far away. Rose easily clutches the phone to her chest.
“This is a stealth mission, Rose,” Lily whispers.
I snatch the phone out of Rose’s hand and pass it to Lily, who starts checking her texts.
Rose sets her hand on her hip. “Why are you whispering?” she snaps. “There’s no one here but us.”
Lily gapes at the screen. I lean over her shoulder and see a series of texts back and forth between her and Connor. “You couldn’t leave his texts unanswered for an hour?” she asks.
“He was annoying me,” she retorts. “My voice had to be heard.”
My own phone buzzes in my jeans, and I check it quickly.
Will you be coming to the luncheon on Sunday? – Mom
A pit forms in my stomach. I text back: Yeah, but Ryke is coming with me.
I wait a couple se
conds since she usually replies quickly, but my phone stays silent. Every time I stop by the house, she refuses to acknowledge Ryke. I think she’s partly embarrassed by what she did with the cops, and she’s too proud to admit fault.
So she’s sticking to her guns.
But I can’t be fake to her. I can’t be friendly when she’s being rude. And I’ve told her numerous times that if she doesn’t apologize to Ryke, then I won’t be the warm, cheerful daughter around her. I’ll be a little colder.
I’m willing to meet my mom halfway. My dad told me that she loves me too much to be stubborn for so long. To just give her time. I hope he’s right.
“Shhh,” Lily whispers, her eyes bugging. As the silence descends, I hear the sound of Rose’s Escalade rolling into the driveway.
“One…” I whisper, listening to a couple car doors popping open.
Lo’s edged voice resounds across the yard. “Christ, we need to get someone out here to plow the driveway again.”
“Two,” I count to my sisters.
“I can do it later,” Ryke tells him.
I smile wide. “Three.” We run out of our hiding places, or really, I run with frozen feet and they walk. Snowballs lie in their gloved hands (mine gloveless).
I focus on the guy in the leather jacket, carrying a case of Fizz Life and a carton of eggnog. And I pelt him with a snowball, square in the chest, the snow bursting open and soaking his gray shirt.
I grin. And his eyes darken on me while his brows rise. “Really, Calloway?”
“Really, really,” I say, already scooping up more snow for my second attack.
Lily shrieks, and I glance over, realizing that Lo’s hair is wet and he’s started chasing her around the snowy yard. She abandons her pre-made snowballs and runs away with a silly smile, her hands on her head like her Wampa cap may blow off.
“Nice hit, Lily!” I call.
She gives me a thumbs up.
And then cold blasts my bare skin. Right in the face. Waking me in an instant. I smile and look at Ryke who has ditched the soda and eggnog. He bends down to make his second snowball.
Game on.
I dodge his next shot and land another one at his shoulder. I try to take a step towards him, but my flip-flop gets stuck underneath the snow. I outstretch my arms for balance, but my weight tilts me backwards and I fall, the white powder catching me like an icy pillow. My hair and my long-sleeve tee is soaked through and through.
