“Yes,” I assure her. “That was really good.”
“That was really good!” She throws her arms into the air and the ball goes flying as she runs a miniature victory lap around herself. “New York Yankees, here I come!” As she stretches out her celebration, pride swells like a rising tide in my chest. At least I think it’s pride. Whatever it is, it’s warm and full and alive, and I hope it never goes away.
“You can pitch!”
“I can pitch!” she echoes, my very own verbal pitchback. She rounds out her victory lap, positioning me as her finish line, and she skids to a stop just in front of me, bright eyed and grinning from ear to ear. “Thanks for the help, coach,” she murmurs, then plants her mitt on my bad shoulder and, before I even realize what’s happening, presses her lips against mine.
When it comes to first kisses, Ellie Meyers is not a long, fireworks-and-butterflies type; she’s soft and simple, and it’s over before I can get a hold on what’s real. The head rush is instant, though, as is the certainty that if that’s acting, I need an encore. My hands find the curve of her waist through the emerald silk, drawing her back up onto her tiptoes and guiding her mouth to mine again. With a brush of my tongue, her lips part like two tiny ballet slippers, opening in a way that’s gentle, giddy,and so perfectly Ellie. A fluttery feeling bridges the arches of my feet, and with each sweep of my tongue against hers, I wade deeper into something I’m supposed to only pretend to have. Friends don’t do this. Group project partners definitely don’t do this. But here she is, and here I am, and nothing about it feels pretend. She tastes like coffee, and I’d drink her all afternoon if she would let me. Cancel Thanksgiving. Cancel Christmas too. Give me weeks and months to learn the plush of her lower lip, the way it rebounds when I release it from my gentle bite. Her kiss feels like hope, like coming home, and I never want to go anywhere else.
“El Bell! Can you come here for a sec?”
We startle apart, and I could choke on my frustration if my heart weren’t already lodged in my throat. Ladies and theydies, it’s the queer cock block and royal pain in my ass, Kara Meyers. She’s really outdone herself: not only has she cut short my make-out session with her daughter; she’s left us no time to discuss what it means. We stare at each other for a long moment and if my face looks anything like Ellie’s, I’m the color of a near-ripe raspberry. We’re frozen in the silence until she clears her throat.
“That’s, uh. That…that’s my cue,” she stutters. She slides the mitt off and passes it to me with trembling hands, and I watch as her cheeks turn a pale shade of pink. So we’re both shaken up. That’s sort of reassuring.
I open my mouth to ask a question, but I can’t seem to land on which one to ask. “Did you…what did…maybe we should?” My head feels like an overflowing aquarium, andeach flopping fish of a thought dies before I can form a complete sentence.
“El Bell!” Kara yells again. “Did you hear me?”
“Y-yes Mom, coming!” Ellie shouts back, then lowers her voice to the volume of a sigh. “I guess we should get back inside.”
“You go ahead,” I say with a wave toward the door. “I’ll, uh, be there in a sec. I…I’m gonna check in with my parents.” I ditch both mitts and retrieve my phone from my back pocket, ready to invent some sort of important business that needs my attention just to buy myself some recoup time. Conveniently, I have three texts from Kat, so I won’t have to improvise after all. I’m about to open the notification when I feel Ellie’s warm gaze over my shoulder.
“Who the hell is Big Booty?”
My chest flattens against my lungs, completely bulldozed by embarrassment. “Oh, uh. That’s Kat.” I hit the side button, and the screen dips to black. “It’s just a joke.”
Ellie’s brows pinch together for a moment, but it’s so quick that I’m sure I imagined it. “Um, okay. See you inside.” Just like that, she’s gone.
When the door to the house clicks behind her, my sweaty palms and shaky fingers fumble to swipe open Kat’s messages. I could use a distraction from…all of that. It was what I wanted, right? For Ellie to kiss me? And it was better than I ever could’ve hoped. But was it a fluke? Did she change her mind about us just being friends? Or maybe she’s doubling back on her “no casual hookups” rule? I’m surprised to feel my heart squeeze, to learn that’s definitely not all I want from Ellie Meyers. Maybe she justgot…carried away, and so did I when I pulled her back in for more. It’s more than I can make sense of, so I focus on my phone instead. Kat’s provided plenty in the way of distractions. She’s sent over two pictures in the last hour—one of their family dog, George, with his paws on the table and his giant basset ears dipping into the gravy bowl, and one of a Scrabble tile rack with the letters arranged to form the word QUEEF. Beneath the pictures, a quick text:
accurate portrait of how thanksgiving is going so far. how’s cleaning going???
I breathe a near-silent laugh at the pictures, but there’s a kick of guilt behind my rib cage at the cleaning comment. If I’d been honest with her about today’s change of plans, we’d be overanalyzing the hell out of that kiss right now. I’d walk her through every fact and question and messy feeling, and she’d hang on to every word, the way we both always do. Kat would probably crack a joke about my fake girlfriend being more complicated than her real relationship, and she’d have just the right pep talk to get me back in that house to do what I set out to do: schmooze. But I can’t tell her any of it, and without my usual sounding board, the unknowns feel too scary to face alone.
I don’t have a choice though. At least not for the moment. Eventually, I’ll have to admit that I chose Thanksgiving with Ellie over more time with Kat, and she’ll inevitably get every detail out of me. But not right now. Not when we’re both juggling chaos, and certainly not when we’re facing true tragedy, likea missed opportunity to play QUEEF in Scrabble with your Bubby. I keep the conversation focused on Kat instead.
scale of one to ten, how bad is it?
A full three minutes pass without a response, validating my choice to keep quiet on the drama of my day. Kat’s busy. Of course she’s busy. She’s introducing her boyfriend to her parents and grandparents and all bazillion of her cousins. She doesn’t have time to text me, and she wouldn’t have had time for me if I were there today. The uneasy feeling in my stomach levels out a smidge. Ellie is confusing, sure, but at least I don’t have to vie for her attention.
I pocket my phone and, before heading inside, slide the mitt back on for one last pitch: a fastball. No spin, no curve, just a steady, reliable pitch.Thunk.Straight into the center of the pitchback, then right into the center of my glove. I wish everything could be that straightforward.
eleven
“Do you have enough room, Murphy?”
I sidestep into my designated place at the kitchen table, a folding chair wedged in with the four-piece oak dining set. None of us has any personal space, but crammed in with my back against the bay window, I’ve certainly got it the worst.
“Of course,” I lie, then fold my arms mummy style so I don’t bump Ellie or Carol on either side as I settle into my seat. Any backward movement and I’ll bang my head on the window; forward, I’ll dunk an elbow in the cranberry sauce. As long as I don’t move, Thanksgiving should be a breeze.
“How’d we ever fit at this table with Mom, Dad, and Marcus?” Carol asks as she scooches her chair another half inch away from mine. It’s a nice gesture, but it doesn’t do much good.
“I’m fine,” I insist. “Promise.” I’d hold a hand up in oath if there were enough room to do so. I’m not fine, really, but that has very little to do with my lack of space. It’s entirely the fault of the extremely cute and brutally confusing girl seated beside me,the one whose thigh is pressed against mine just enough to make my head spin. In the wake of our little off-script moment in the garage, every little touch feels magnified, more electric, and in turn, more confusing. I’ve lost the line between real and pretend, but for better or worse, that doesn’t impact our plan. We’ve got two critical topics to bring up, and neither of them are our feelings.
“All righty, where do you want me to put this?” A booming voice interrupts. Otto, the only one not seated, saunters in with a giant bowl of mashed potatoes balanced between his belly and his forearm. By the eye daggers he’s getting from Kara, you’d think he’d walked in with his own head on a pike.
“There’s no room,” Kara growls, sweeping a hand through the air across the width of the table. “This is why I told you to use the green bowl.”
