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She elbows my ribs. “Next insult ends with this hot coffee in your crotch.”
I clamp my hand on her mug. “I apologize profusely, Jolene. You look incredibly well rested. And feminine,” I add.
She rolls her eyes and extricates the mug from my hand. A sip later, she says, “Don’t make a sound, and give me all your money.”
I almost check her forehead for a fever, but I see an old man leaning over a little girl in pigtails, and he’s holding out his hand. Jolene’s playing an impromptu round of our “What are they saying?” game.
The pigtail kid crosses her arms, but my brain’s too tired for creativity.
“One more move,” I say in a horrible high-pitched voice, scrambling for an idea, “and I’ll…stick my tongue out at you?”
Jolene scrunches her nose. “That was subpar.”
“I’m out of practice.”
“Me too,” she says quietly, fiddling with her mug handle. “Do you still play football?”
“That’s a random question.”
She shrugs. “There are so many years of blanks to fill in.”
“Too many,” I say and sip my coffee. Twelve unbelievably long years. “No, I don’t play football. Gave it up when we left here.”
“But you loved it so much.”
I nod, feeling a pinch against my Adam’s apple.
Jolene stares at my profile, waiting for me to go on. When I don’t, she says a stern “Callahan.”
I almost laugh.
This was always her thing growing up. If we were hanging out and I’d get quiet, she’d look at me and say, “Callahan.” That was it. Just my name. She’d fold her arms and stare holes into my forehead until I’d break and tell her I got a bad grade on an English paper or a bully was picking on E or I was frustrated with my father for barely acknowledging me when he’d spend loads of time with Lennon.
Her unwavering stare has the same effect on me now, knocking my vocal cords loose. “At the start of WITSEC, I avoided situations that made me uncomfortable, which was most of them. I didn’t like lying to people. Making friends felt phony and uncomfortable, so I quit all team sports.”
“You must have missed it a lot.”
“Yeah.”
“I play in a soccer league,” she says, shifting even closer. “Nothing serious. Just a bunch of adults out for exercise and a good time, usually followed by drinks at the bar. You should join us.”
I like that she plays soccer. I really like that she invited me along. I can picture Jo and me on a field, getting competitive the way we did during my family football games. Plus, there’s no avoiding Jolene in this town. I’ll see her at festivals, coffee shops, art galleries.
I nod. “Sounds fun. Hopefully I can fit it in.”
“You two look cozy,” Maggie says, heading toward us. She’s dragging Lennon by the hand. Seeing his T-shirt lifts my mood exponentially. The cotton is bright pink and reads,I’m so hipster, even I’ve never heard of my favorite beer.
I smirk. “Who do I have to thank for this amazingness?”
Maggie bats her eyelashes. “Me, of course. Your brother lost a bet.”
I gesture to the table. “Join us. I need all the details, please.”
Maggie has red hair, a face full of freckles, and a personality full of sass. She eagerly pulls a chair over, while Lennon stays standing and crosses his arms, attempting to cover the shirt’s slogan.
“As you know, we’re renovating our house,” Maggie says. “Turns out the wiring is from the dark ages, so we need to bring it up to code. Until we figure things out, we’re not supposed to use the kitchen appliances, and Lennon keeps bragging, saying he can cook anything outside on an open fire. I bet him he couldn’t bake a soufflé. He claimed otherwise and sweated over his fire with a Dutch oven. Lo and behold”—she fans her hand to his shirt, grinning her face off—“the soufflé was as light as a rock.”
“The pink really works for you,” Jo tells him, trying to keep a straight face. “Brings out the red in your beard.”
