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The next day,Isaac tells me how annoying his substitute teacher is.
On Thursday, August doesn’t show up to practice.
When Saturday rolls around and I pull into a parking spot beside a familiar beat-up Ford Bronco, I find myself breathing a sigh of relief but it’s a short-lived repose.
There’s no explanation for why I deflate as Willow Lane clambers out of her sister’s car. I don’t know her well enough—or at all, really, since a sly wink shot from across a dark bar hardly counts as an introduction—to feel anything about her, honestly. Yet when she struts by, I feel a whole lot; disappointment heads the list, concern not too far behind, something akin to irritation rounding out the trio. Whether that last one pertains to Willow’s presence or Sunday’s absence or myself for even caring, I’m not quite sure.
When I glance at my passenger seat, I can picture Sunday there so clearly, curled up as much as the confined space would allow, looking like the dead resurrected. I can picture August in the backseat too, face pinched with concern, seatbelt straining against his chest as he leaned forward to grasp his mom’s shoulder.
He never used my number. My silent phone mocked me all week. It still does, sitting in the center console, and I glare at the blank screen. I have her number but considering how I got it—every parent fills out a contact form when their kid joins the Sharks—using it feels like some kind of violation. Especially knowing she definitely wouldn’t want me to.
“Pathetic, Morgan,” I mutter, my head thumping against the headrest. “You’re pathetic.”
“Talking to yourself?”
Heat prickles my skin even before I turn towards the sudden teasing voice, even before embarrassment makes room for something else as I recognize the woman grinning at me through the open driver’s side window. Whatever the word is for‘oh shit, I’ve been caught thinking about someone by their goddamn sister.’
It’s weird how the Lane sisters share so little similarities yet somehow look so alike. With a ruddy brown bob, gleaming eyes that lean more towards the hazel end of the spectrum, a put-together outfit of a knee-length pencil skirt and a meticulously ironed blouse, Willow is nothing like her tawny-haired, stormy-eyed, perpetually-disheveled-but-in-an-artful-kind-of-way sister. Yet somehow, no one could ever deny their relation.
Maybe because that oh-so-professional skirt is the same eyesore shade of yellow the missing sister seems to love.
“Cass Morgan,” Willow croons, propping her forearms against the frame of my open window. “We finally meet.”
Clearing my throat, I force one hand to lift in a half wave. “Hey, Willow.”
If she’s surprised I know who she is, she doesn’t let on. “Whatcha doing?”
“Nothing.”
Her hum is amused, unconvinced, slightly mocking. “She’s at home.”
I paste on a sorry excuse for an oblivious frown and aim it at the steering wheel. “Who?”
More teasing comes in the form of laughter, swiftly followed by cooed advice, “Never commit a crime, Cass. You have a terrible poker face.”
Unfortunately, I know.
“I guess even legends have their flaws.”
I can’t help but wince as the incision site in my shoulder, long since healed, throbs. Yeah. Tell me about it.
When I gesture for Willow to move, she does, enough for me to slip out of the car but not enough for a real escape. Every step I take, she matches, even when we reach the field and her heels sink into the grass. Wet grass, I note with a grimace casted at the dark sky. I used to love playing in the rain but that was back when I was younger, healthier, when slipping and dirtying my uniform was the only risk instead of slipping and popping a joint out of place. “You picked a bad day to come watch.”
“I’ve got a meeting so I’m not staying long.” Willow takes the arm I offer her, steadying herself against the uneven ground. “Just dropping the little man off since Sunday’s sick.”
Something in my stomach twists. “Still?”
“Gideon—” I don’t know why I’m surprised Willow knows Gid; everyone knows Gid. “—said there’s a nasty bug going around. Her boy has it too.”
One glance around confirms Sawyer Kosta’s absence. His sister, Noah, is persevering—it strikes me this might be the first time I’ve seen the twins separated—but, now that I’m really looking, I notice a few more absences. God, proves how much I care about kids who aren’t related to me. “August is okay?”
“He got over it quick.” Willow might be facing forward but I still see the smirk pulling at her mouth. “Between you and me, I’m pretty sure he faked it so Sunny wouldn’t be alone.”
Unsurprising; it’s glaringly obvious how much that kid worships the ground his mother walks on.
“I gotta ask you something.”
My least favorite sentence. Swallowing a groan, I crook a brow. “Yeah?”
