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I’m happier than I’ve been since I stepped foot on this campus.
Happier than I was in high school even. For years, I felt out of place. Like I had no one on the same page as me.
But now, suddenly, I have Nick.
Lightness fills me up. It doesn’t matter that I’m losing. It matters that I have a new friend, and I genuinely like him… and we’re starting the Friday Night Checkers Club.Together.
Chapter 1
Maddison
Present Day
“So… the rumor is true.”Roxie sits, bouncing the couch I’m sprawled out on.
“Ugh…” I groan as I drag my gaze away from the television and then roll to my side to make more room for her.
“This pullout couch. What is it, twenty years old? I think I can feel every freaking box spring,” she says. “You look terrible,” she adds, not helping.
“Hello, little sister dearest. It’s so nice to see you, too.”
She folds her legs up so she’s cross-legged and scrutinizes my face. “Seriously, Maddison… What’s going on? We haven’t seen you for a year and a half, and now you’re here. Your face is puffy, you have circles under your eyes, and… what is this… ice cream? For breakfast?”
I cast an embarrassed eye to the coffee table at my side. The container of double chocolate fudge swirl has a silver spoon poking over the brim.
My parents’ basement used to be a much-loved rec room when Roxie and I both lived at home. But it’s clearly become more of a spill-over storage area than an actual hangout spot over the past decade-plus, since both of us little birdies flew the coop.
A pile of my mother’s second-string dresses are draped over a chair. The exercise bike my dad bought one January, when he was in one of those New Year Optimism streaks, is covered in a thick layer of dust.
The television is seriously outdated. A pile of cardboard boxes teeters to its left. I’m not sure about the last time anyone vacuumed down here, but based on the musty smell, it’s been a while.
“I drove home from LA to languish on an old couch and work my way through a carton of ice cream because my life is going great,” I deadpan. I don’t have the energy to even try to justify my behavior.
“It’s eleven a.m. Why aren’t you dressed?”
I glance down at my oversized T-shirt and faded striped pajama pants. My threadbare hooded sweatshirt with the Stillwell Diner logo on the chest is unzipped, and thatmightbe a chocolate smudge covering the “S.”
All I can do is groan.
Then, with massive effort, I plant my palms behind me, making the whole awful couch creak, and struggle up to sitting. “This is not my finest moment. You don’t have to rub it in.”
“I’m not rubbing it in, I’m just trying to get the picture. Mom says you left LA on Thursday and you’re going to stay here for a while…? She said you had some bad luck but you don’t want to talk about it?”
“I didn’t want to talk about it with her and Dad last night, because I was too tired. Driving across the country does that.”
“But you’ll tell me, right?” She reaches for the ice cream and works the spoon into the melty mix. When she takes a bite, her eyes close. “Oh my word. Okay, ice cream for breakfast isn’t such a bad idea. Why is this the first time in my life I’ve done this?” She takes another scoop.
“Leave some for me.”
She wags the chocolaty end of the spoon at me. “No. You’ve had enough. Half this container’s gone and you got in eight hours ago. Unless you moved back home with a horde of ice cream–eating kids that are hiding out in the back room, I can only assume that you’ve eaten a half gallon by yourself.”
She’s right.
I wish she wasn’t, but she is.
“Ice cream makes me feel better.”
“Taking a shower will do that, too. So will talking.” She licks more off the spoon and then wiggles the tip at me again. “Spill.”
