Fran: Ohhhh. Caution for dissent. I get it now.
Stella: I missed it. I was in the bathroom when Lucca got carded. Do you have any idea how often pregnant women pee? Why do our bladders work overtime when growing a human?
Stella: What happened?
Me: I was asking Maggie a few questions about her soccer history. Friendly questions. That’s all. But she’s touchy.
Rosalie: No, she’s just used to you spiraling whenever you get near her.
Me: Cruz men do not spiral.
Rosalie: Wanna bet?
Fran: Maybe we should move on. What’s the favor, Lucca?
Me: I want you ladies to invite her to Stella’s show tomorrow night. I just need an opportunity to chat with her.
Me: Very friendly. Very polite. Promise.
Stella: I don’t know her.
Rosalie: I only know her through Fran and Zev.
Fran: I’ll do it! I volunteer as tribute! Don’t worry, I’ll get her there.
I can practically see Fran jumping in place, hand raised.
She’s the best.
Fran: As long as you promise to be nice.
Me: Scouts honor.
Rosalie: I don’t think he was ever a Boy Scout.
Eleven
I leanagainst the kitchen counter and peer down at my phone. Wyatt’s already off to school, and Lindy’s sleeping in. She doesn’t have to be at the grocery store until ten today.
“Huh,” I say out loud.
“Huh, what?” Mom asks as she washes the dishes. I make breakfast for Wyatt every morning I can—just like Mom used to do for me and Lindy. But Mom insists on at least doing the dishes. I keep reminding her that she should be enjoying the life of an empty nester. The least I can do is the dishes.
“Just a text.” I slip my phone into the back pocket of my jeans. “It’s nothing.”
“Wanna talk about it? A ‘huh’ usually warrants a conversation.”
I bite down on my bottom lip and pull my phone out once more. “It’s just this girl, Fran—she invited me to an art show tonight.”
Mom pauses her scrubbing and peers at me, thoughtful. “And? You don’t like art?”
“No.” I breathe out a laugh. “Of course I like art. I just—well, we’ve never hung out before.”
Mom shrugs, her hands deep in suds. “You have to start somewhere. You should go.”
“Wyatt and I usually hang out on Fridays,” I say, but I’m still looking at Fran’s message. When was the last time I went out with a friend?
Fran: Hey, Maggie! I was thinking about you. A friend of ours has an art show tonight. You should come. It would be fun to see you off the field.
