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“I’m with Alice,” Coco says.
Mom scratches at her jawline. “It’s okay if you’re nervous, sweetheart.”
I don’t need kissing lessons, dating tips, or a sex talk from my personalizedViewcommittee. Instead of Whoopi Goldberg and Barbara Walters, I get Lucy Bailey—mother of the smitten; Coco Taylor, all-knowing veterinary sister; Meredith Porter, quirky friend; and Alice Taylor, opinionated seven-year-old.
“It’s not okay.Owen,you cannot be nervous with Annie.” Coco groans.
Meredith tilts her head. Her drawn brow says she does not agree. “You’d deny someone’s feelings, Coco. If he—”
I hold up both hands. “I’m not denying my feelings. I’m respecting hers.”
“Oh, that’s good too.” Meredith points to me.
Coco crosses her arms—still not appeased. “But she kissed you back last week.”
“Wait one second,” Mom says. “Last week?” She huffs, a little disgruntled. “I am so out of the loop.”
I give Coco a small glare—something that isn’t easy for me—and she winces.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t make me regret sharing with you.”
Coco slaps a hand over her mouth while my mother continues to stare at me—just like she did when I was eight years old and she wanted an explanation for the one missing slice of Grandma Bailey’s birthday cake. The woman can wait like no other.
I swallow. “Yes. I kissed her last week. It was… unexpected.”
“And she kissed you back?”
I dart a small glance at Coco, who I am determined to be mad at. “Yes. But she’s still unsure.”
“But she’s coming to Thanksgiving,” Mom says as if it’s fact rather than a question. She breaks from our huddle and snatches a bottle of water from the fridge. “We can fit one more—”
“Mom, her sister lives here. I’m sure she’s spending Thanksgiving with Kayla. She might even be going to Boise to see her parents.”
“You don’t know?” Meredith asks.
I mean, normally I would know. But Annie and I have been a little distracted with other things lately. We haven’t talked about the holiday. “Uh. No. I don’t.”
“Well, text her, silly.” Coco’s hands shoo me on.
“If it’s easier, honey, tell her that I wanted to invite her.” Mom tilts her head and gives me one of her sweet, winning smiles.
But I don’t feel won over. I feel bombarded. Still, I keep my tone kind when I protest. “I’m not ten, Mom. I don’t need you to help me out of a sticky situation anymore.”
She gives a small head shake. “Whatever you say, honey.”
Still, their eyes won’t leave me. But then, maybe they’ve given me an out. “I’ll text her,” I say, and with the words, I head down the hall to the bathroom. I lock myself safely inside and pull out my phone.
Me: Hey, Tuesday is my last day of school. Want to come over for dinner?
Annie: Sure, are you cooking?
That was quick. But then, Annie loves it when I cook for her. Maybe I need to clarify—
Me: For you? For date #2? Of course, I’m cooking.
Then sheepishly, and a little cowardly—apparently, I only have so much bravery today—ten-year-old me adds:
