I grin. “It will be nice to see everyone. Plus, I miss the sun. It’s practically criminal to still have to wear my jacket every day.”
Dad laughs. “It’s not that cold out.”
“They said it’s going to warm up next week,” Whitney chimes.
I nod. “Yeah, Rose said the same thing, but I still have to pop my vitamin D pills to get sunshine in my body.”
“Seattle’s turning you into a hippie,” Dad teases.
“Frank,” Whitney warns him. “It’s proven that vitamin D is good for us. This is science, dear.”
He blows out a grumble, turning his attention back to the screens in front of him as his phone rings.
I pour a puddle of honey over the softened butter and mix it with a spatula until it’s combined, listening to dad list off qualities and concerns of several prospective players, with whom I assume is, another coach.
“We’ll have to see what happens with Kostas,” he says, making my ears perk up at the mention of Arlo. “If the doctor says he can’t play next year, we’re going to have to make some tough decisions. I don’t want to cut his scholarship—that kid has come a long way, and the team loves him. I think it would be a tough loss to cut him, but with so many upperclassmen next year, we’re going to hurt ourselves if we don’t have enough freshmen to move up. We’ll have to see what happens and remain fluid with the situation…”
My heart beats to a confusing rhythm, one that begs for interference and a stiff drink as my dad’s words fade off, and he turns toward his home office.
“I should check on Ross,” Whitney says, interrupting my focus. “He’s in trouble for not doing his Spanish homework. I told him you were coming over and might be able to help him.”
“Sure,” I volunteer, though I have little interest and less desire.
“You don’t need to worry about anything on the stove. It should all be fine while I’m gone.”
“Okay, yeah, um … I was actually going to go grab some stuff I’d left here.”
“You know it can stay. We don’t mind.”
I nod. “Yeah, no. It’s stuff I need to go through still.”
She smiles. “Okay, sure.”
We both nod, our unfamiliarity blatant as she works to get around me and heads in the opposite direction of my dad’s office to the family room.
My Chucks squeak on the dark wood floors, reminding me I left my shoes on. I toe them off by the door and take the stairs up to my room. It’s all pink ruffles and rainbow glitter in here, decorated by Whitney when I was little and has never been changed. Their weekly housekeeper ensures the room doesn’t smell musty though it’s nearly always vacant.
I cross the cream-colored carpet to the walk-in closet, which is filled with more stuff than it should be. Clothes that Whitney had bought me with flowers and some that are cute, but I wasn’t ready to admit then and am still unable to fully admit now, old school uniforms, the dress I wore to senior prom and another to high school graduation. Boxes of old school memorabilia that Whitney boxed up for me, claiming I might want one day.
I heave a sigh and start shuffling through the boxes. I make piles, searching until I finally find one of the several boxes I’m searching for—things I’d packed and haven’t sorted through since moving from Texas. I set it in my room and go back into the closet, grabbing a heavy box with old papers and awards from my first years of high school. I grip the opened flaps and start to move it when it slides, but the corrugated cardboard slices through three of my fingers before it falls and hits my shins, adding insult to injury.
“Dammit,” I hiss at the sight of blood seeping through the wide cut. I abandon the boxes and go to the bathroom to grab a wad of toilet paper to soak up the blood, my stomach heaving at the faint metallic scent.
I head back to my room with the wad of toilet paper clenched in my fist, the sting distracting me from the scent of blood that always makes me feel lightheaded. I sit on the edge of my bed, pulling my phone from my pocket. Matt had texted me this morning, a selfie of himself in his practice jersey that had created a fissure of pain in my chest