“That’s it!” I stand up throwing her over my shoulder and she giggles, using her small fists to punch my back harder than you’d expect from a girl her size. I toss her on the couch and raise my arms like I’m about to grab her again as she squeals loud enough that Todd from next door bangs on the wall behind the TV.
“Knock it off,” Mom says sternly before loudly calling out, “Sorry Todd!”
We freeze, stifling our laughs. I pull her up andwe both move back to the counter, where Mom instructs us to help roll out a few more pie crusts.
“How many pies are you even making?” I ask, noting she currently has three in the oven.
“Can I meet her?” Her insistence is quiet and stern, the kind I can’t side step despite the years of teenage rebellion I spent trying.
“Ask Carmen. She knows her better than I do.” I sniff, shifting my weight down and into the rolling pin.
Mom gives me a sour look, chastising me, and rolls her eyes.
“Just admit it Andy, you’re inlove,” Carmen sing-songs, still oblivious to the subtext. I huff a laugh I’m hoping pushes us past this conversation.
“We’re friends. That’s it,” I say definitively, like saying it out loud will erase the feelings.
Those damn feelings.
“Friends who kiss!” Carmen practically screams and my head snaps to her.
“How’d you?—”
“I was going to grab a drink of water and saw. She would’ve told me, though. We’re close like that.” She shrugs, standing to grab a pie tin from the stack.
“Kissed?” Mom asks, raising her eyebrows, concern welling in her eyes. “In this house?” she adds, for levity or for Carmen, and crosses her arms with a look of faux sternness on her face.
“Itreallydoesn’t matter.” I focus on rolling out my own pie dough, not meeting her eyes, but I feel that tender expression she wears whenever she pities me. Whenever she knows I probably did mess a good thing up but doesn’t want to rub it in. She moves her mixing bowl to the counter right in front of me and I feel her trying to force me to meet her gaze.
“Andy…”
I glance up to find her whisk mid air, staring at me knowinglyand it bothers me because she doesn’t know anything. She has no clue why I want Sloane. Why I can’t have her. She must see something in my face because a small frown flickers at the corner of her mouth.
“What’s wrong, honey?” She sets the whisk back in her bowl.
“I…kissed her.” I pause, remembering. “And she ran from it. I haven’t really heard from her since.” I clear my throat, not mentioning that it was probably for the best. I carefully place my pie crust in the dish to my left, being careful not to tear it. I feel Mom’s eyes narrow on me, her posture shifting.
“Well…did you chase her?”
I look up, surprised even though I shouldn’t be. My mom will always find a way to take a woman’s side.
“Chase her?” I scoff.
“Women love to be chased, Andrew. It’s romantic.” She picks up her whisk and slowly begins stirring again.
“I don’t think she’s the type who wants to be chased,” I sigh.
“Oh please,” she huffs. “Every girl wants to be fought for. They want to feel worth it. You need to decide if she’s worth it.” Mom shrugs, grabbing my pie dish to finish folding the crust over. “My god, the turkey will be done before you finish this crust.” I fall back again in my bar stool, tilting my head toward the ceiling.
“You’re being a baby,” Carmen points out, her eyes glued to her pie tin like they were the whole time she eavesdropped.
“And youarea baby,” I mimic her tone and she punches me in the arm so hard I wince.
“Carm…” Mom warns. “She’s right, though. You’re being a baby.” She shrugs, opening the oven and Carmen snorts a laugh. “Now I know you don’t want to listen to an old woman, but if you like this girl you need to show her that, honey. I know everything feels dire at this age, but things have a funny way of figuring themselves out. And youdeserveto fight for what you want. Even if it ends up not turning out the way you hoped it would.” She sets the timer on the oven, wiping her hands on the back of her pants. “If there’s a will there’s a way. And if it isn’t meant to be, you’ll know you tried.” She kisses me on the head and goes to the pantry to find one of the ingredients needed for the stuffing she’s set on making.
Deserve.
It’s such a funny idea, deserving something. On one hand I think she’s right, think that maybe I do deserve to be happy, to find someone who really sees me, thinks that I’m a good person despite it all. In reality though I know it’s the opposite—that I don’tdeserveany of it, that I’ve been betraying the people who mean the most to me for years, and for what?
