Page 94 of Level Up for Love

Wesley’s thumb toys anxiously with the handle of his mug. His smile is a little sheepish. “No, we—we keep it really low-key, honestly.”

I nod slowly. I don’t know if that makes it better or worse. I can’t decide what turns my stomach more: the thought of Wesley with me on his arm, introducing me to dozens of family members, or the intimacy of a tiny table where we’d have to carry the conversation for hours.

It doesn’t make a difference. My answer would be the same.

“I’m not ready for Thanksgivings, Wes.”

He presses his lips together. Takes a slow sip of lukewarm coffee.

For a moment, I think that’s enough. We’ll let the awkward moment pass and move on to the next thing. It’s been our typical way of handling these things. But then, when he turns his face to me, I see his eyes have gone hard.

“What are you ready for?”

I blink. “I thought we were just giving this until the competition.”

“And then you brought up playing again.”

I purse my lips. I hoped he’d let that go. “We were joking, and it just—slipped out.”

“But what if I want to play again? Or hold your hand in front of our friends?”

My head’s reeling so violently I feel like I might fall off his lap. “You also said you wanted a new job, to get back out there. You can’t have both, Wes.”

“You don’t want that, too? You’re too good not to want that, Reagan.”

Uncertainty swirls in the pit of my stomach. I’ve had too many people telling me that lately, reminding me of my old wish-upon-a-star dream that did nothing but let me down and distract me from what really mattered. It feels like no one recognizes how hard I’ve worked in spite of it to build a life for myself that’s smart and secure, a safety net I can catch everyone I love in, if I have to.

I hate being told what I should and shouldn’t want.

Sometimes, I hate wanting at all.

Some of my irritation fades as I look back to Wesley. The sincerity etched into every line of his face is far too genuine, and it’s almost painful to look at.

“I can’t miss Thanksgiving,” I say eventually. “It’s too important to my mom. But maybe…maybe we could ride together to Arthur’s cabin. I could pick you up on the way, and—and I could stop for breakfast.”

It’s not much, but it’s something. And judging by the way Wesley’s shoulders relax by a degree, it’s enough for now.

At the gym Monday morning, I run on the treadmill, cursing myself with each slap of my shoes on the belt.

I tend to dread any form of cardio that doesn’t involve dancing or getting naked, and today is no exception. Unfortunately, I was cursed with a kind, caring stepdad whose only real flaw is that he insists upon a family Turkey Trot every Thanksgiving. It’s an annual sacrifice Mona and I make at our mother’s request.

Monday isn’t one of Wesley’s usual days, and that’s partly why I’m here. Maybe I don’t want him to see how bedraggled I look as I limp my way through the last half mile of this 5K practice run.

Or maybe I need a little space after yesterday’s tense conversation.

Despite my desire not to be seen red-faced and sweaty after my painful jog, I run into Shay in the locker room. She’s already in her work clothes—fitted navy pants and a loose white sweater—though her hair is still damp from the shower. She smiles when she sees me.

“Hey. Tough one today?”

“I hate running,” I say with a groan. “But after Thursday, I’ll be free.” I open my locker and shrug into my hoodie. “Are you going anywhere fun for Thanksgiving?”

“To my aunt’s, in Springfield. Mom’s so glad she doesn’t have to cook this year.”

“Hah, I get that. Wesley told me he’s traveling up to Mass, too.” And then, because I can’t help my curiosity: “Have you met his parents before?”

Shay gives me a strange look. “His parents?”

“Yeah, he said he was visiting family, at his grandparents’? I just assumed—”