If These Wings Could Fly - Kyrie McCauley Page 0,27

up?” I say, but she’s already moving through the crowd, twisting her body between the bruising crush of people. “Cam, wait!”

I have to push through people to keep up with her, apologizing for my rudeness, but not stopping. Something is wrong.

When we emerge on the other side, our dad is talking to Mr. Dillard. He’s the father of someone our parents went to school with, and he happens to run the other construction business in town. The one that got the library renovation. He also always brings up Dad’s knee injury when they talk. I try to figure out if he’s said anything yet.

“Could’ve gone pro! I know it! The whole town knew it. Would’ve been our claim to fame.”

Dad’s expression is pained, his smile forced. “Yeah, well, some things aren’t meant to be.”

“You’re telling me you were meant to run your daddy’s business?” He laughs. “Run it right into the ground in this economy, am I right?”

My stomach drops. This is bad.

Mom knows it, too. “Jesse, we should get Juniper home soon. It’s late for her.”

She pulls on his arm, but he’s immovable.

“Stop it, Erin,” he says.

His whole body has gone tense. His knee injury is always a rough topic. A reminder of what could have been. But the business is like a gaping wound. He’s doing everything he can think of to keep it moving, but it was never his dream to run it.

Mr. Dillard doesn’t know when to shut up.

“Takes a special kind of drive to run your own business,” he says. “Some people got it, some don’t. Kinda like running the ball, don’t you think?” He shrugs at the field. I’m vaguely aware that halftime is ending. The players are lining up, and people are climbing back into their seats.

“Jesse, let’s go home,” Mom says again, tugging harder.

He lifts his arm fast in response, drawing it back, and then almost instantly dropping it to his side.

He remembered where we are.

My stomach turns, embarrassment flooding me. I feel like the entire town is watching this moment.

“Hey, everything okay down here?”

It’s Bill DiMarco. He isn’t in his uniform. Off duty, just enjoying the game.

“Fine, Bill, thanks,” Dad says, but his face hasn’t softened. Bill sees it, too, taking in the whole scene. Mom’s tense withdrawal from my father’s side. The way Juniper’s lower lip is trembling.

But then he turns his gaze back to Dad, and claps him on the shoulder. “Just wanted to say hi. Kind of wild to see the team doing well, huh? Reliving the glory days.”

The tension shifts, melts. Dad turns his attention from Mom, finally.

“Damn straight. Maybe this time they’ll actually go all the way.”

Bill smiles, but there’s sadness in it. Or pity.

Dad’s smile slips again.

“We’re gonna head out early, though. I’ve got a job a borough over tomorrow.”

“Of course, yeah, good luck with that,” Bill says.

Bill’s attention turns to my mom. I can almost hear the question as it forms in his head. Are you all right?

I’ve never wanted anyone to ask a question more. To acknowledge a thing they just saw with their own eyes. To do something about it.

“Good to see you, Erin,” he says, and turns away from us.

Good to see you, too, Uncle Bill.

Auburn, Pennsylvania

October 5

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Chapter Twenty-One

LIAM CALLS ON SUNDAY, JUST LIKE he said he would.

He invites me to his house, and even though Mom covers the phone before she hands it to me and mouths It’s a boy, she doesn’t say no when I ask her if she’ll drive me over. As I get ready in the bathroom, Juniper lifts herself up and sits on the bathroom counter. She watches in silence while I draw on eyeliner. When I reach for my gloss, she purses her lips, and I gloss her up, too. She smacks her lips together, checks her reflection, and wipes the back of her hand across her mouth.

“What is even the point if it’s not flavored something yummy,” she says. But she lingers in the bathroom, pouting a bit into the mirror.

“Something bothering you, Juniper?” I ask, my mouth forming an involuntary O while I put on mascara.

“Who is Liam?”

“A friend from school,” I tell her. I blink too soon, and mascara stripes line the top of my cheek. Juniper licks her finger and wipes at the marks, smearing spit and makeup.

“Ew, Junie.” I pull away from her, laughing.

“A boy friend,” she says. I can tell boy and friend are separate words the way she says it. Like Campbell’s bike friends.

“He’s helping me with

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