Page 62 of I Saw You First

“No. I think it’s great,” he says finally. “I’m glad you found a way to keep writing.”

I whoosh out the breath.

“Just don’t let it get in the way of work, especially now with the holidays around the corner.”

There’s the Wil we know and love. Time to change the subject. “Can I help clean up or anything?”

He shakes his head. “No, we’re good.”

“Maybe I could volunteer sometime,” I say. “The game was fun.”

“You could be a buddy next year. We can always use more women to buddy up with the girls.”

“Oh, I don’t know much about baseball.” And who knows where I’ll be next summer.

“I could help you,” he says. “Mostly we teach the kids about teamwork.”

“I’ll think about it.” I smile. I liked watching Wil engage with the kids, not to mention run around the bases. He looks happier and more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him.

“Why does your dad call you apple?” he asks.

I can feel my cheeks pink up. “Apple Records. Abbey Road.”

He smiles. “Of course. I should have guessed.”

“He’s called me that for as long as I can remember.”

“I like it. Your parents are great.”

I roll my eyes. “Greatly embarrassing.”

“I’m sorry you missed my grandparents and uncle,” Wil says. “They left right after the game.”

“Uncle Howie was here? I would have loved to have met him.”

“Someday,” Wil says. “You’ll meet him someday.”

It sounds like a promise.

Even with a raise for my promotion from ATC to team captain (by some miracle, Jeremy agreed to my salary demands, although I don’t actually know how much Aurora made, so he could be lying), I’m still not making anywhere close to my salary at TC Weekly. Even with overtime, I’m having trouble paying all my bills. After every long shift, I think about stopping by the night deposit box at Norwest Bank with the “severance benefit,” but three things always steer my car in a different direction: my integrity, my self-worth, and let’s face it, my sheer exhaustion.

I haven’t written anything for the zine in a couple of weeks. Hal emails. He wants me to write a preview of a local punk compilation and I can’t say no. He tells me that people have been asking what happened to me.

Retail, Hal. That’s what happened.

The night before Thanksgiving, I work until after midnight to make sure everything’s ready for Black Friday. I’m exhausted, but I haven’t bought the ingredients for the cranberry sauce I’ve been assigned for tomorrow’s family dinner. I stop at a 24-hour Walmart near the store to buy fresh cranberries, an orange, a bag of sugar, and cinnamon sticks. I pass a display of inexpensive bouquets in yellows, oranges, and reds. It’s been weeks since I bought myself flowers, and even though I’m hardly ever at home, I buy one.

I give Moses an extra helping of 9Lives Seafood Platter, his favorite, but because he’s pissed at Brianna and me for working such long hours, he crawls under the couch as soon as he’s done eating. No snuggles for me. I put the Walmart bouquet in a vase, make the cranberries, and shower until the water runs cold. I’m up until two and barely sleep, startling awake every hour or so, worried about sleeping through my alarm Friday morning. Black Friday. The end times.

I spend most of Thanksgiving at my parents’ house, where the cranberry sauce is a hit, although Mom didn’t bother to hide her can of emergency Ocean Spray.

“I spoke with Bobbi McVay the other morning,” Mom says as she pours everyone coffee after dinner to go with the pumpkin pie. “You remember Bobbi, the church secretary?”

I do not.

“Bobbi said she knows someone who knows someone over at The Green Thumb. She said she could try to get you in over there.”

“The garden center?” Scout asks. “What would she do at a garden center?”