Brody nods, looking like he’s going to say something but doesn’t in the end.

  Smart. Super smart.

  “Call me later?” he asks as we march up the steps to my front door, opening it to find all four of them (Kanes and Prewitts) staring at us, eyes wide and looking for any kind of answers. I choose to deny them the satisfaction.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I know that he’s just messaged me and will pop up on my notifications.

  Everyone makes their goodbyes as if they aren’t a bunch of liar-liars, waiting at the door, playing matchmaker and waiting for Brody and me to get attached at the mouth.

  Like, we’re in our late twenties, we’re not teenagers anymore.

  We’re not gonna be banging every two seconds on every surface available. I can’t step foot back in my parents’ house, I just can’t do it. There are too many memories associated with Brody. Nope, can’t do it. I thought I had erased them, but they’re still there.

  Shit, shit, shit!

  I forego the promise of exquisite leftovers of Mom’s cooking and Dad insisting he give me some extra milk and other perishables in my trunk because he thinks I can’t feed myself.

  I make the drive home without breaking any speeding laws and make it to my cute, little house, putting on the alarm, and traipsing inside, ready to start my nighttime routine when my phone rings.

  It can only be one of three people, my contact list consists of so many patients or colleagues, and they know not to call after a certain hour.

  “Maximus,” I greet, groaning when I get up the stairs, the muscle soreness really kicking in now. Went too hard on leg day again, as you do, apparently. Does anyone have a good time after leg day? I don’t think so.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She sniffles and I know the world is ending. “Nothing’s wrong. I watched the sappiest movie of all time, and it had a tragic ending and now I want to curl up in a ball with all of my pain.”

  “Oh, that sounds awful.”

  Max sniffs hard and blows her nose obnoxiously loud, right in my ear. “God, why am I like this? A giant puddle of human emotion? Why can’t I be more like you?”

  I grin, ignoring the jibe. “There can be only one,” I snicker. “Vick’s the better one to be, though. I keep everything inside until I burst at the seams and lose it for two days straight. Vick cries on the weekly, and she doesn’t fluctuate as much as you and I do. She’s the emotionally stable one, you know.”

  Max snorts as if I made a funny joke instead of laying down truth, but it’s still watery, and she blows her nose so loud again that I have to pull my phone away from my ear.

  “I miss your face.”

  I smile, turning on my bedroom light, looking at the perfectly made bed, as if it sums up my life. No pup that’s been on it, keeping it warm for me, no boyfriend’s clothes laying on top, discarded in the morning before rushing out the door. Nope, just my perfectly made bed.

  “Yeah, me too. It’s been a while since we all hung out just us, huh? I mean, we’re due for our yearly re-watch of Hocus Pocus, yeah? I’ll make a menu and tell you what to bring,” I say, ignoring the flicker of nerves that seems to twinge in my chest at the thought of them coming over.

  I love my cousins, I do, but they’re honest to the point of brutality, and I’m just tired of people being honest with me, of telling me what and where I’m lacking.

  Can’t somebody just tell me how awesome I am and mean it through and through?

  “Oh, can you or Vick make that marshmallow-popcorn slime thing? I dream about that stuff, Amber. I want to marry that stuff, Amber.”

  “Yeah, yeah, sure I’ll make some. But I think Vick makes it better than I do. Whatever, I’ll figure it out. It’s in two weeks, right? Shit, where the hell did the month go?” This time of year is simultaneously super slow and super fast. Time and space move oddly around the upcoming holiday season, especially for the Prewitts.

  “I’ll tell Vick. She’s been dodging my calls lately, and it’s making me nervous.”

  I frown, trying to chuck my jeans off one-handed and it’s not working. “What do you mean? She’s screening your calls?” Jesus, when was the last time Vick answered something in the group chat? A whole week? Not that I’ve been good about checking in on that, either.

  “I mean, I know we’re all busy, but a text takes two seconds,” I say.

  Pot and kettle, right, Amber?

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m saying.” Max blows her nose again, then lets out a heavy sigh. “I’m gonna show up at her apartment with that deadly-good Moscato she likes, and she’ll have to let me in.”

  I shake my head, fighting back the grin. I’m too tired to grin, too much has happened for me to grin. Brody Kane wants to have a fake relationship, with me, during the Prewitt’s favorite time of year. Why, why, why?

  “I mean, that’s an option.” I yawn, feeling a couple of tears spill out past my iron-clad sense of control. “I’m gonna call her tomorrow, and we’ll figure it out. I’m sorry, I’m beat, man.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I get it. I’m going to bed, too,” Max says, and I hear rustling, something like the cocoon of blankets she always surrounds herself with. “When did we get old? We used to go out all night, and now look at us. It’s barely eleven and we’re both old ladies going to bed.”

  “Yes, I am an old lady. Deal with it.”

  “You’re turning thirty next year. Vick, too. Are you terrified?” she asks around a yawn.

  “Buddy, pal. I don’t know if anyone told you, but you don’t really change all that much when you hit your thirtieth birthday. I’m still a stan of Everglow, and I’ll re-watch Sailor Moon until the day I die. None of that actually changes. Not one bit.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. You’re definitely going to hide your manga when you have a hot date come over.”

  I gasp, affronted. “Absolutely not. A dick is transient, Sailor Moon is forever.”

  Max laughs, then fights back another yawn.

  “Go to bed, you criminal. We’ll talk with Vick tomorrow, have ourselves a Prewitt-family intervention.”

  “I just nodded, but you’re not here. I’m tired, why am I so tired? Is Izzy sucking out my youth like SJP as Sarah Sanderson?”

  “That’d be a neat trick. All right, I’m off. Talk to you tomorrow.”

  “Love you!” Max chirps before hanging up, and the words get stuck in my throat before I can say them back.

  I’m emotionally constipated, I admit it.

  I don’t know why, and I don’t want to analyze it too deeply. I had a great childhood, and I was raised well. I studied hard, did my best. I just happen to keep everything locked inside most of the time. I don’t know if it has anything to do with being an only child or not.

  I think about calling Brody once I crawl into bed, but he’ll have to wait, and I’m too tired to even think of the ramifications of what we’re about to do.

  Because yeah, anything’s better than getting constantly ragged on by my parents who believe Brody Kane to be my one true soulmate, the guy I’m supposed to spend the rest of my life with.

  I’ll give them the dream, and then console them when we break up after Christmas.

  We can all lay this to rest, once and for all, forget about the ‘what ifs’ or the ‘what could have beens’.

  Unfortunately for them, Mom and Dad believing in love winning it all won’t make it come to be.

  Me? I’m not so sure that Brody is the one for me, or at least, this version of him.

  He wouldn’t have broken my heart in the first place if that were true. I know that history has that pesky tendency to repeat itself.

  FOUR

  “Hello?” I say, even though I know who’s calling. I just messaged him, and he has my phone number from last night. But like, I didn’t mean for him to call me, just message me, like a normal person would.

  Brody has never followed the unspoken rules, and this time is no different. Glad to see that some things don’t change at all.

  “Yeah, it’s me,” he says, his voice coming out a little gruff. “Are you busy right now, can you talk?”

  I sigh. I wanted to have this conversation in text form, so I can think about what I want to say and not rely on my poor brain filter that seems to be leaking like a sieve these days. It could be because I’m getting older and I’ve lost all my patience with people who seem to have no respect for my time, for my ability. Or it could be because I’m tired and I was tossing and turning last night, trying to figure out what I should do.

  “Yeah, go.”

  “Wait, are you eating?”

  I am, in fact, eating. Evil celery with peanut butter in the middle to make it that much more palatable, but I still hate every second of it. I ran out of hummus and carrots and peppers, and this was all I had in my fridge.

  I’ve run out of groceries, again, and I know if I go shopping when I’m hungry, I’m just going to do a run-through of the cookie aisle and start tossing things in my shopping cart instead of buying veggies that are actually good for me.

  “Yeah, so? What’s your point?”

  “Well, I don’t want to bother you if you’re eating.”

  My eyes bug out. Brody Kane, being considerate of another human being? No way. No way.

  Maybe you just made him out to be the villain because you wanted to be the hero of the story, huh?

  “It’s fine. It’s a snack. I’ve got like another twenty minutes on my break before another patient comes in. Talk to me, if you must.”

  Brody takes a deep breath, and I wonder where he’s sitting.

  I know his parents took him back in, even if he can afford to rent something pretty spectacular, but it doesn’t make sense to go through the hassle of getting someone to sub-let after he decides to leave in January.

  Must be hard, though, going back home when you’ve been on your own so long.

  An adjustment period to end all adjustment periods.

  “Did you think at all about what I said last night? You seemed…distracted.”

  I shut my eyes, ignoring the way his voice has some sort of physical effect on me. He always had a nice voice, always, always, and it used to be one of my favorite things to listen to.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea, to pretend,” I say, crunching down on my awful celery, then waving it around like it’s some magical weapon.

  “Like your parents or my parents aren’t going to see right through us. Frankly, I don’t have the energy to fake it right now. It’s not like I’m gonna go from not being able to stand you, to letting you hold my hand and call me baby. That’s not how it works in the real world, Brody.” I chew viciously on my celery and peanut butter, almost forgetting about the horrendous taste.

  Why does celery exist, why?

  “That’s why it’ll work. I’ve been hounded for years about finding a girlfriend that was half as good as you.”

  Well, that sure is some news. I resume chewing at a more moderate pace, and now I can taste it, ugh.

  “And I’m sure your parents have been keeping tabs on me, too. It’s the way they are. They’ve been friends for decades, and they have too much invested in this.”

  I sigh again. “So what? We’re just gonna do what they want us to do?”

  Brody snickers, because he knows I basically live for my parents’ approval. Life is just so much easier that way.

  Go with the flow instead of constantly fighting the current, right?

  “Until I leave. That’s all I’m asking.”

  “Why don’t we say we’re dating, but don’t actually see each other? That sounds like the best plan to me.” I point my dwindling celery stick like it’s a laser pointer and I’m giving a presentation on why Brody and Amber back together are a bad idea.

  Brody groans, and I hope he stubbed his toe, or stepped on a Lego.

  “Hold on a second, you think your family, the number one holiday lovers in the entire city are going to let it pass that we’re seeing each other again and I don’t get invited for Aunt Lisa’s pumpkin pie, or Christmas? We have to sell it, Amber, and to sell it we’re gonna have to spend time with one another.”

  I think about it, really think about it.

  My parents have been ragging on me for years to bring someone home for the holidays, for the family gatherings. I know the Prewitts are a lot, and I’ve carefully avoided it for a long time.

  My stomach twists, and I press a hand to my belly.

  It’s already started, the weighted and assessing look from both of my parents – I’m sure they’re wondering where they went wrong, and f they’re at fault that I can’t find a man.

  I’m sick of it, I’m sick of not measuring up because I don’t have a boyfriend to spend the cuffing season with.

  And now that Brody’s back in town?

  My parents are going to be insufferable, and I’d rather enjoy all of my meals (and pumpkin pie) without having to dodge questions or inviting the entire Prewitt side of the family to figure out why my long-term relationships don’t seem to last.

  I roll my eyes and bite my cheek.

  I huff, already exhausted.

  “I don’t know if you’ve noticed but my days are long, and when I get home, all I do is watch something funny on Netflix and nod off. It’s not like you’re gonna wake up at balls a.m. like I do to get to the gym. You’re only really cleared for swimming, so we don’t put unnecessary pressure on your joints.”

  “I can do seated lifting for my upper body.”

  I shake my head, even if he can’t see me. “We don’t want to add too much pressure on your posterior chain.”

  “Amber, it’s my leg that’s messed up, not the rest of me.”

  “Yeah, you were in a car accident, or did that not sink in yet? Your entire body went through it, and it’s my job—or someone else’s—to help you get back to where you were, hopefully.”

  Brody’s quiet for a time, and for a second I think my phone dropped the call. “Do…do you think I’ll ever be able to play lacrosse again?”

  My throat gets tight and words become difficult. What do I say, what can I say? I go for the truth.

  “I…I don’t know if you’ll ever be as good as you were. You have a lot of damage to your knee and hip where you got the brunt of it in the accident, and your whole body’s practically out of alignment. We would need to do a lot of work—set up a routine that another PT can take over once you leave after the holidays to get you even close to where you were.”

  I ignore the way my throat hurts, and the way I’ve bowed my head over my patient notes and there’s a horrendous splotch of saltwater smearing the ink of my snazzy fountain pen across the page.

  Great, I’m gonna have to re-write that.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Brody goes quiet again, and I let him sit on the news.

  It’s odd how someone else’s decision to get behind a wheel, drunk and off their face, can impact your own life so disastrously.

  Brody Kane was one of the top players for the PLL, the Professional Lacrosse League, that featured the best players in North America.

  It’s what he wanted to do ever since we were in high school. I don’t think he ever thought he would need a plan B.

  Well, who thinks they do, when everything feels and seems to be going just the way they want it to?

  “Thanks for letting me know, for being honest with me.”

  “I really am sorry, Brody.”

  “Yeah…” His voice sounds thick, almost wet, and it makes the tears well up in my own eyes. “Yeah, me too.” He pulls in a deep breath, holds it, then lets it out all at once. “I’m gonna call you later, yeah?”

  “Yeah, sure. Have a good day.”

  We hang up, and I feel like an asshole. This is the worst part of my job if I had to pick a shitty part of it—letting people know their new limitations, and how we can work around them. I feel like I just ruined his life by telling him the truth.

  But I’m not going to lie, I can’t lie.

  Brody’s knee and hip will never be the same, never. Why lie about that?

  “Yeah, she’s not picking up my calls, either” I say, huffing and puffing after doing a HIIT workout on the treadmill for twenty-five gruelling minutes. No matter how many times I do it, I still feel like I wanna die every single time. “Max, she’s not picking up my calls, I don’t know what you want me to do.”

  “Let’s go see her! Please? I’m getting worried!”

  “Watch her getting dolled up for a date, and our two asses show up before the guy shows up.”

  “Are we talking about the same person here? Besides, if that’s the case, it’ll be like a mini meet-the-family, but only me and you show up. I’m coming to pick you up in half an hour. Get your ass in the shower, and I’ll be there soon.” Max hangs up, expecting me to obey.

  I had plans tonight. Okay, so they included me hopping on the treadmill in my basement for some time, and then walk my ass up the stairs and get in a scalding hot shower to wash off the sweat. I planned to put a hair mask in my hair after shampooing, I planned to put a sheet mask on and read a book on the ever-growing stack on my nightstand that I cycle through with whatever catches my interest.

  Now, though?

  I have to put on something that isn’t a sports bra, another pair of jeans, and a T-shirt that looks presentable and doesn’t have any holes in it.

  It’s not like Max has given me any real time to work with. She’s the kind of person that says she’ll be there in half an hour, and in true Max Prewitt fashion, and then show up either too early, or a lot later.

  She’s got a lead foot, and no remorse when it comes to driving, and it helps that she doesn’t drive a Toyota Corolla, but a little Mini Cooper, like the ones from The Italian Job. She’s put money into it to make it faster, and I feel like I’m gonna die every time she accelerates, the G-force wanting me to become one with the seat I’m sitting in.

  “One of these days, you’re going to be too early, and I’m going to make you sit out here in the freezing cold,” I mutter, groaning when I have to squat down and take a seat. I went a little ham on all variations of the lunges and squats yesterday and every muscle fiber I possess in my legs is rioting because of it.