Jameson settles back in the booth. “What about you, Addy? What’s the plan after July first?”
Addison blinks. “What do you mean?”
“What do you plan to do after the gallery opening? What comes next?”
She’s quiet for a second, swirling her whiskey. “I don’t know, actually.”
“You always have a plan,” I say, watching her.
“Not this time.” There’s something lighter in her mood. “I’m going with the flow for the rest of the year. Your guess is as goodas mine. I’m hoping the gallery opens new doors for me. I think I need some excitement in my life.”
Jameson reaches over and pinches her.
“Ouch, what the hell was that for?”
“Making sure you’re not a robot or something. You don’t go with the flow. Ever.”
“Maybe I’m trying something new.” She takes a drink. “I spent so long creating artwork, keeping a rigorous schedule, and being overly strategic about my career. This is the first time in years I’m creating art because I want to. That’s freeing in a way I can’t describe.”
“It is,” Kendall says with pride in her voice. “I’m proud of you.”
“It feels good.” She raises her glass. “A toast to painting our hearts out and not giving a fuck.”
Kendall clinks her wine against Addison’s whiskey. “In any order.”
Conversation drifts to the playoffs because it always does, and Jameson gives me shit about game two, where I missed an easy shot in the third period.
“It was a bad angle,” I say.
“It was an open net.”
“The goalie got lucky.”
“The goalie was on the bench for an extra attacker. There was no goalie.”
“Shut the fuck up,” I tell him with a laugh. “I already have a set of highly qualified coaches. I don’t need your two cents.”
Kendall laughs and squeezes my thigh under the table. “He’s been beating himself up about it all week.”
“As he should,” Jameson says. “That was embarrassing to the Cross name. But speaking of coaches, how are things?”
“My dad is coming around,” Kendall says. “He told an actual joke at dinner last weekend.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t repeat it.”
“Oh, tell us,” Addison says, just because she likes to go against the grain—often. Runs in the family.
“Why did the hockey player bring a ladder to the game?” Kendall pauses and looks around. “Because he wanted to play on another level.”
Jameson stares at her, then glances at me. “That’s terrible.”
“I know. I didn’t have the heart to tell him it wasn’t funny,” I say. “But I did give him a smile.”
“It was a little funny,” Kendall says.
“Dad jokes,” Addison offers.
A month ago, Coach wouldn’t even look at me. Now he’s telling dad jokes at Sunday dinner and asking about my playoff strategy. We’re not besties or anything, but we’re something. Family maybe. Or at least heading in that direction.
