The conversation’s muffled, but I get closer to the door and swing it open before really thinking about what I’m doing, I find Max and Michael on the other side of it, out in the hall, having a conversation.

  It sucker-punches me a little, making me lose my breath, watching the two of them talk, making me feel smaller than I already am for some reason, and I don’t like it, not one bit.

  Even if Max says she looks like Winifred Sanderson’s undead boyfriend (who she found with her sister, Sarah, and killed him dead), Max is beautiful, the kind of beautiful that makes people stop and stare. She’s popular too, warm enough that people don’t feel bad about coming to ask her about her makeup—guys, girls, and everyone in between—and there’s a charming power to all of that?

  Me?

  I’m not good with people, it’s not effortless for me as it is for her.

  And I can see that, clearly, how easy it is for her to talk to Michael, how easy it is for her to keep a conversation going when I can’t seem to string two words together in his presence.

  And Michael, Michael responds to her warmth (honestly, how can you not, though?), like a flower would bloom underneath the sun.

  Me? I’m the moon.

  “Hey, Vick,” Max says, holding out the bottles of Moscato (four of them) in her hands, holding them out in a way that makes us both look like alcoholics, and my glance skitters over to Michael, wondering if he’s going to be a judgy asshole.

  Michael smiles at me, though, turning his body in a way that it seems like he’s facing me and only me, his smile widening until his teeth are showing, and his eyes dip down to the camisole I’m currently only wearing, feeling like I’m flushing all the way down to my collarbones.

  Wow, I haven’t been this undressed in front of a guy in years, and I want to cover up, but I do nothing but raise an eyebrow when he makes eye contact again, not that I felt gross under his gaze, there was nothing leery or lecherous about it, just a quick catalogue of what I’m wearing, of what’s on my body.

  “Bye, Michael,” Max says, waving her hands and hence waving her grip around the wine bottles at him, and he gives us both a nod before zipping up his coat and heads down the hall towards the elevators.

  I close the door behind her, locking it with the security chain and all, and whirl around to face her. Max sets down the bottles of Moscato. I don’t know what I want to say, to tell her not to flirt, but who am I to do that?

  Max is glamourous in all the ways that I’m just…not. The only adventure I take is with my hair color, and I’m going to need to freshen up the color soon because I’m starting to look like a drowned mermaid, and I don’t think the color suits me, not one bit.

  “I brought a bunch of makeup I’m decluttering that I can’t give away to the women’s shelters because they’ve been opened, you know?” Max says, placing the giant purse she always carries onto my kitchen table, like she’s some sort of makeup version of Santa Claus, about to hand out gently used free makeup for whoever wants it, whether they’ve been naughty or nice.

  “Do you want to eat first and then swatch some makeup, or do both at the same time while we watch Hocus Pocus? Up to you since I’m super late and all.”

  “You told me you look like Billy Butcherson and you lied.” I jab my finger in the air at her, waving it around. “Where’s the problem?”

  Max points up to her eyeshadow, and from this distance I can’t really tell much of anything, so she takes a few steps closer and I can sort of (maybe, possibly) see the problem.

  “You see how they haven’t blended together, like there’s a segmentation of color and shades? You see?” She points with one of her talons to the area in question and I nod along, since I can see it!

  Dinner goes like that. I end up queuing up Sleepy Hollow before we eat dessert and watch the movie we’re both really here for, while we both set up in front of the couch, and I make sure to put in eyedrops before we settle down to eat.

  It’s easy like this, and we almost forget about Amber, even though Hocus Pocus is one of her favorite movies of all time. She’s even said something about having had a crush on Max (the Max in the movie, not our Max) forever and ever until she grew out of it and fell in love with Brody Kane—the guy that got away, and them came back.

  I can forget that she’s not here, that she doesn’t seem to care, that she keeps drifting further and further from us, and I know I should just ask what’s going on in that head of hers, try to figure her out, but I’m tired of always putting in the effort.

  I want someone to figure me out, to read my nonverbal cues and make a decision about them, and if there’s clarification needed, then I’ll give it.

  I’m tired of always being the one to put my head down and try to fix things first, to put that much effort in.

  I’m tired of it.

  That’s why I can’t possibly have a crush on Michael Nash, glorious and beautiful as he is. It’s a waste of time and effort, and I’m already so tired.

  In what realm of possibility would me and Michael make any kind of sense?

  We don’t, and that’s all there is to it.

  FOUR

  My mom’s American, which is usually not a big deal until November comes around and there’s a month-long preparation in time for American Thanksgiving where the entire family comes together to eat another turkey—again.

  Like, Canadian Thanksgiving happens on the second Monday in October (due to a shorter harvest season, I had to look it up), and now there’s another turkey I’m going to have to eat this month.

  And that’s not even mentioning all the indulging that happens between the end of November in a mad-dash sprint to Christmas, and then to New Year’s Eve, until I figure the rest of the world is punch-drunk on all the holiday madness (if you celebrate Christmas and all) is dying to get back to work and away from all the indulgence.

  For the Prewitt family, we basically start our holiday season from October, and with Daylight Savings Time coming into effect next week in the beginning of November, time moves even more quickly as if the year wants to end faster than what we’re normally accustomed to.

  Weird.

  “What’s up, loser?” I say, my ear buds in my ears as I deep clean my bathroom, frowning at myself when I can’t remember the last time I cleaned it.

  Ugh, gross, Vick—you’re a slob.

  I’ve eaten nothing but toast with peanut butter and a sprinkling of cinnamon this morning, but still, I actually had breakfast, and today I’m going to force myself to go to the gym and do weights and hop on that treadmill and sweat in a way that’s conducive to my body moving, and not the kind of stress-sweat that happens when I’m gaming..

  I’m half-excited and half-terrified about getting back into a gym routine after being out of it for the past couple years, never letting my membership expire, just letting them charge me fifteen bucks a month to not show up.

  I’m the greatest customer the gym ever had, honestly.

  “Vick, you’re awake?” Evie, my little sister, asks.

  I made the decision to make the phone call, and now I’m being made fun of for no other reason than I prefer my hours to be nocturnal. But now I’m trying to enter the common world with the rest of the civilians, and most people do tend to keep morning hours and sleep at night.

  “But it’s morning.”

  I scrub my bathtub but need to press my buds back into my ears with the back of my gloved hands, making my face a little wet, which is also gross. I try not to think about it and focus on the call instead. I can talk and do stuff at the same time, I can, grimacing all the while at the state of my bathtub that I haven’t used, not once, since I moved in a year ago (maybe more).

  “You’re such a brat, you know that? A brat.”

  Evie laughs on the other end, and I wonder how many texts I’ve missed from her, if she’s given up on me when I’ve taken the deep dive of preparation for one of my tournaments.

  “What’s up with you? You’re awake during the daylight hours, and you initiated a call. Who are you? Who?”

  “And I’m gonna go to the gym later.”

  “No!” Evie gasps as I groan to reach the farthest spot in the tub from my kneeling position and scrub at a soap scum stain that won’t give up the ghost no matter how much elbow grease I’m using. Shit. “What are you doing now?”

  “Cleaning the bathroom. You know how much I hate doing it, so I try to do it first.” I’m just talking to talk, trying to keep the conversation going, even though it’s kind of tiring, trying to multi-task what I’m going to say next to keep her interested, and trying to get this fucking bathtub clean.

  Jesus.

  “Yeah? Cool, cool,” Evie says, and I can tell she’s not listening to what I’m saying, that I, her older sister, don’t really capture her attention enough that she can barely pay attention and listen to me. And that’s fine, not all siblings are the best of friends despite sharing blood and being three years apart. Mom always said we’d be closer when we’re older, but I don’t really see that happening—we’re just too different and our personalities clash.

  I mean, I wouldn’t push her in the middle of traffic and hope for a bus to pass by—well, there was that one time where she took one of my keyboards and threw it down the stairs an hour before I was going to be competing, the little bitch, but I wouldn’t do that normally.

  We’re just not close. I’m closer to Max and Amber than I am to my own sister, and I don’t know what that says about me.

  Maybe not the nicest of things, if I’m being honest.

  “I just wanted to know if Mom’s prepping from now for Thanksgiving.” I didn’t really want to know, but it’s only the second year that I’m not living at home amidst all the chaos of stressing out and prepping and deep cleaning the house (like washing the walls, why do I gotta wash the walls?), and I’m maybe wondering how Evie’s handling it.

  “You know how she gets. She even said she’s going to mess with the pumpkin pie recipe.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “Yeah, it’s a big deal. She’s getting fed up with making it. Amber’s gonna lose her shit. You know Mom always makes her a pie for herself after the fact, even though Amber has the recipe,” Evie says.

  It’s a throwaway jibe at Amber, while being so cerebral and good at school, and doing well when it comes to book smarts, she’s not the absolute best when it comes to cooking or baking, even though she tries—which is more than what you can say for me.

  Cooking just takes so much energy, although baking seems more up my alley—I’m good with precision and accuracy.

  I didn’t choose my handle to be NIKTORIOUS for nothing, obviously.

  I excel at being precise and accurate, and I think I could master the whole art of baking if I had time, or you know, actually gave it a shot instead of just thinking about doing it.

  Well, you’ve got time now. You could even bake something for Michael!

  Do I want to bake something for Michael? Is that a thing I want to do?

  Yes, please!

  I sigh at the antics going on in my own brain, pulling in a deep breath to let out another sigh, but Evie doesn’t pick up on it, and I try not to be annoyed and upset that she doesn’t ask me what’s wrong.

  To be fair, when have I asked her what’s wrong lately, when have I shown an interest in the past couple of years?

  I’d been on an upwards trajectory with my gaming, making more money than my dad has ever made, pulling in six figures with everything that I’m doing, including prize money from all the tournaments I won, putting in the time and the effort, and it’s felt a lot like I didn’t have time for anyone else.

  So as much as I rag on Amber for cutting herself off from us, I didn’t have enough energy to try and chase her down much, either, to demand her friendship and attention and hang out like we used to before all of us got so busy.

  Max isn’t an exception to this rule either, she’s just more accommodating, and she’s more on top of her shit than I am—she schedules in “social time,” time blocks or whatever other organizational tool she’s found for herself that works for her, and she makes her life revolve around it.

  I should do something like that.

  I literally have nothing else to do for the next three months or so, other than reply to emails about potential sponsorships that I can actually look at now and see if I want to partner up with some companies or not.

  It’s hilarious to me that they always address me as a he (like statistically, I get it, but shit, it takes nothing to make an email gender neutral when you just don’t know), and maybe I can prune all the energy drink companies and actually look into ones that sound interesting, that sound like companies I want to support.

  When I told Max I was taking a break from work, she immediately penciled me in to sit in front of her camera and film a video with her putting makeup on my face for kicks and giggles, keeping my super-secret gaming identity secret of course.

  I didn’t say no.

  She’s been doing her channel for close to four years now, and she’s asked me (well, me and Amber, who didn’t feel comfortable for her face to be on camera because she’s a “professional”) to let her film a video of us together since forever and I just couldn’t say no…

  And while makeup is an extremely powerful tool to mask people’s insecurities, and enhance whatever a person has, I know by looking at my reflection that I look like roadkill that’s been sitting out in the sun too long, and nobody wants to see that on camera.

  Nobody.

  And that’s not even factoring in how awful the people on the internet can be at dismantling what self-confidence you do have with garbage comments.

  So, in order to get to be in a more comfortable headspace where I feel good sitting in front of a camera, and to make Max, my best friend, happy, too, I need to do something about my horrible diet, and drink water, and eat some vegetables, and feel stronger.

  I know that when I feel stronger, I’ll look better because I’ll feel better about myself in that one, singular aspect.

  I finish cleaning up the bathroom, concerned by the way my energy seems to already be waning, but end up having a peanut butter and banana sandwich (because I still need to do groceries), and eyeing the jar of pre-workout that I really should throw out instead of experimenting with it and downing some of it.

  I don’t need a trip to the hospital if my heart feels like it’s going to beat right out of my chest.

  No thanks.

  I wear the cleanest sweats that I own, tightening the string at my hips, knotting it twice for good measure, and pulling on a billowing t-shirt because I don’t actually own any cute gym wear and I don’t really want to show off how skinny my arms and legs have gotten, or if my ribs look more prominent than they ever have.

  I stuff everything in my old gym bag: my training gloves, a towel, a giant twenty-ounce water bottle waiting to be filled at the gym, and an extra change of clothes so if I need to make a trip somewhere after leaving the gym, I won’t be all sweaty and stinky.

  Lastly, I add one of my deodorants to the bag, too, and a pair of beat-up Chuck Taylors in taxi yellow, and zip it up closed. I’ve got a scrunchie around my wrist and make another mental note to myself that I need to go shopping again for more hair color if I want to freshen up the sad teal on my head.

  I get my keys, pull on my boots and my coat, and head out the door, the sandwich I just ate sitting oddly in my stomach as I lock up and head to the elevators. I don’t want to waste any energy by walking down the stairs, and try to wait patiently for the elevator to show up.

  I’m looking down at my boots, adjusting the weight of my gym bag along my shoulder (when did it get so heavy?), so I startle when I see another pair of feet come to stand beside mine, much bigger, stuffed into boots that are half-done, just like mine.

  Intrigued, I look up at the feet and let my eyes crawl up the legs (man legs) that are in joggers (I think that’s what they’re called, the kind of leggings that guys would wear if they go to the gym), skip over the hips ’cause that’s rude, and up to the leather jacket and straight up to Michael’s face.

  Oh, Jesus, really? Right now?

  I’m going to be laid low by his face and smile again?

  Michael gives me a smile I’m not sure my resting bitch face deserves at the moment.

  “Victoria,” he says, and I open my mouth to correct him, I do, really, but nothing comes out and Michael just keeps talking—to me. “Nice to see you again.”

  I make some sort of weird animal noise in my throat, like a startled raccoon that doesn’t know whether to run away or claw an enemy’s eyes out first.

  I give him a weak thumbs up, then turn my head forward, pretending he doesn’t exist, pretending I don’t exist, wondering if I should just make a run for the stairs and take my time going down them until I can get to my car and drive to the gym.

  I could do that, I could so do that.

  “Ah, I’m running late. See you around, Victoria,” Michael says, his voice floating somewhere over my head, and I feel the gust of wind pass me by as Michael moves towards the stairs, and I turn to watch him leave, hearing him take the stairs down and down, letting out the breath I feel like I’ve been holding since I realized he was standing next to me.

  “What’s the matter with me?” I whisper to myself, holding onto the shoulder strap of my gym bag, clenching at it like it’s going to ground me.

  I get inside the elevator when the doors open, make it down to the garage without incident and get to my car, make the whole fifteen-minute drive to the gym, and find parking pretty easily, which probably isn’t going to last long once the new year comes around.

  I have to deal with some administrative shit (having not been here for almost a full two years), and when that’s done, and I’m sufficiently drained from the experience, I head to the women’s locker room, stuff my shit in the locker, panicking for a second thinking I didn’t pack the combination lock that was in there that I miraculously—miraculously—remembered the combination to, and head back out with my phone in hand, earbuds already stuffed into my ears, sweeping the general area and trying to decide what I want to try first.