Page 27 of 10 Signs You Need to Grovel

Sadie: I bought a ticket to go on the first rocket to Mars.

Jasmine: And then Camila Cabello shows up and tells me she loves my shoes.

Zoey: And then Camila Cabello asks if we can be best friends.

Max: And then Camila Cabello discovers a hidden gem beside the rocket glowing with power.

Jun: And then aliens come down and laser everyone in half and destroy the rocket’s engine.

Carter: And then Max farts and the rocket takes off.

We’re on story four. I have no clue who Camila Cabello is, but she stars in each adventure—Jasmine, Zoey, and Max appear to be obsessed with her. Max displays his impressively vivid imagination. Jun keeps blowing things up. Carter adds farts or burps or puking, targeting Max and Jun as the butt of his moronic jokes. Olivia refuses to play and walks at a snail’s pace, so I’m kicking up the rear, ensuring she doesn’t become one of the 1,600 people who’ve vanished in the wilderness.

She’s been blessedly quiet, but she keeps glancing at me. Each penetrating perusal has me getting antsier. When she walks even slower, forcing us into a near crawl, I debate pulling the flare from my backpack and signaling for help.

“There’s major tension between you and Sadie,” she says.

Oh, hell no. We are not going there. “You’re imagining things, kid.”

“Is she your wife?”

“No.”

“Ex-wife?”

“No.”

“Tinder hookup who ghosted you?”

“What the—” I stop myself before I say fuck. But come on. What is wrong with this child? “You need to hang out with kids your own age.”

She shrugs. “Kids my age don’t like me.”

Shocker. “You shouldn’t even know what Tinder is.”

“My mom’s single.” She kicks a rock, still barely walking. “So . . . is Sadie, like, your high school sweetheart and you broke her heart or something?”

I choke on nothing and almost trip. I’m not sure what’s more maddening, this nutcracker’s quick diagnosis of my horrible love life, or that I planned kiddie activities for a bunch of preteens. I breathe in deeply, inhaling earthy scents and hopefully a teaspoon of patience. I keep my mouth shut, praying Olivia will quit grilling me.

We follow the winding trail through towering oaks and hickories, passing truck-size boulders I’d like to crawl under. Sadie and the group are well ahead, but she glances over her shoulder and nods to me. I nod back. Her attention slides to Olivia, and she offers a compassionate smile. This kid’s as painful as you imagine, I think and find myself grinning back. Like we’re twenty again. Like we’re in love with our own secret language of looks and inside jokes.

“So she’s definitely an ex,” Olivia says.

“It was a long time ago,” I snap, immediately regretting my tone and giving her even a morsel of truth.

She makes an oooooh sound, showing what looks like genuine excitement. “Did you cheat on her?”

“No.”

“Did you take your anger out on her and hurt her?”

Jesus. “Of course not.”

“Did you disrespect her life choices?”

How does a twelve-year-old have a degree in couples counseling? “Quit with the badgering.”

My steps are more like stomps, this volatile energy jacking up my blood pressure to Hades levels.