“It all went to shit,” Miller said. “Nothing changed. I kissed her and nothing changed…” He ran his hands through his hair and then held his head, elbows resting on his knees.
“She and River…?”
“Still going to Homecoming together,” Miller said miserably. He sat up and hurled a pebble into the fire. “Screw it. I’ll ask Amber to the dance. Maybe start something with her and try to just…let Violet go.” His heavy glance went to Ronan. “You going to go?”
“No.”
“What about you?” Miller asked me, and I could see he hoped that at least one of us would back him up.
“No,” I said, ideas whirring in my head—one of them possibly a good one. “I have other plans.”
Chapter Seven
Saturday morning, I came down to breakfast to find Mom sitting with Dad and Amelia at the table and Dazia bustling around in the kitchen.
“Heya, River!” Dad said, his voice and smile both strained. “Ready for the big game today? Coach Kimball tells me scouts from three—three—colleges have confirmed and will be there. All elite football schools.”
“Dear, let him have some breakfast first,” Mom reprimanded gently. Dark circles ringed her eyes, and her skin was more pallid today than it had been yesterday when she’d said she felt well enough to come to the Homecoming festivities.
“I know, I know. But this is it. The game we’ve been working for.” Dad chucked me on the arm. “I think I’m more excited than he is.”
That’s the damn truth.
“River, darling,” Dazia called from the stove. “Eggs? Bacon? Or boring cold cereal like your sister, the little rebel.”
“Eggs and bacon would be great.”
I took my seat beside Mom, my stomach twisting in knots that had nothing to do with scouts or “the big game.”
“Hey,” I said quietly. “How you doing?”
She managed a small smile. “Hanging in there.”
Dad’s bluster faded and he silently reached over to take her hand. She gave it a squeeze, and I watched an ocean of pain wash over them. Amelia, sitting hunched over her cereal bowl, looked up at me from behind a wall of dark hair. She shook her head slowly, then retreated again.
My stomach clenched, and it felt as if an unseen hand were pressing me between the shoulder blades.
When Mom’s gone, the spokes are going to fly off this wheel and who the hell knows where we’ll land.
Dazia breezed over with her arms laden with plates like a waitress at a diner. “Here we are, Whitmores. Breakfast is served.”
“You’re too good to us,” Dad said brightly but then hesitated over his plate a moment before diving in. Eating his food without tasting it. A job to get done.
I knew how he felt. When Dazia set a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and a wedge of cantaloupe in front of me, I could hardly stand the smell. I forced myself for Dazia’s sake.
She set a bowl of oatmeal in front of Mom, and I watched, my heart climbing out of my throat, as Mom closed her eyes and laid her hand on her stomach.
“I’m so sorry, River,” she said faintly. “I wanted to watch you play today so badly. And the parade after. To see all those people cheering for you…” She swallowed hard. “But I think I need to go lie down.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
“Amelia, come and tell me all about it later.”
“Okay.”
Mom started to rise, and Dad jumped to his feet to help her.
“Finish your breakfast, honey,” Mom said. “Dazia, do you mind…?”
Dad sat back down while Mom spared me a final smile and slowly, leaning heavily on her friend, retreated to her room.
Silence fell where none of us spoke or touched a fork or spoon. Suddenly, a scraping of chair against tile sounded and Amelia hurriedly ran from the room, hair flying, a hand clasped over her mouth.
“Big day,” Dad said, his voice thick. “It’s going to be a great game. The launchpad to your future.”
A future he almost had but was stolen from him. And now his future with Mom was eroding right before our eyes.
“Yeah, Dad,” I said and managed my own smile for him. “It’ll be great.”
“You ready for this?” Donte smashed his fists on my shoulder pads. “We are going to destroy them with our signature Whitmore-to-Weatherly Bomb up the right sideline. Their defense is going to go home questioning their will to live. Am I right?”
“Hell yeah,” I managed. “Accept nothing less.”
“That’s my boy!” He brought his fists down a final time and then stormed around the locker room, psyching up the other players until it was loud with cheers and smack talk.
Chance Blaylock, half-dressed in our blue and gold uniform, shoved his bulky bare chest against my arm. “What’s wrong, Whitmore? You look ready to cry in your Wheaties.”
“Fuck off, Blaylock.” I shoved him roughly under the pretense of pre-game testosterone overload. “The only crying happening today is going to be on the Soquel bench.”
“I heard that. But goddamn, we’re lucky I’m here. That asshole, Parish, nearly fucked us big time.”
I bent to tie my laces, concealing a sour grimace.
Even without Chance, I was going to throw for at least two touch downs and two hundred yards. The Soquel Saints had no defense. This was a gimme game against a low-ranked team meant to make us look good. Make me look good in front of the scouts. The whole thing felt wrong. Dishonorable. But nothing else in the world was going to make my dad happy.
“You should see the sweet table Parish’s uncle sent us to replace the other one,” Chance was saying. “My parents should be thanking me that I
