Page 136 of Against The Rules

“He was worried she wasn’t eating enough.”

“Oh, I like this Tyler already.”

I frown, and Presley kicks me in the shin.

“Ow, what the hell, Presley?”

“Don’t you dare be mad at him. He literally only went against your wishes because he was worried about you after your panic attack last night.”

“Panic attack?” My mom’s forehead creases.

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not, you liar,” Presley says, passing me a piece of tempura. “But thanks to Tyler and your mom and me, you’re going to be.”

“You’re right.”

Presley pauses, lowering her own battered shrimp with wide eyes.

“You’re right. I need help. I’ve needed help.”

“Damn.” She whistles low before biting off a chunk of shrimp.

“Language,” my mom says. “Savannah, I’m so proud of you.”

“For needing help?” I laugh, feeling hollow and uncomfortable with my admission.

“For admitting you need it.”

“I’m proud of you too.” Presley squeezes my thigh.

“What if I never get better?” I ask morosely. “What if I’m always anxious and weird about food and exercise and work?”

“Then we’ll buy you a one-way ticket on the hot mess express,” Presley says.

“Presley!” my mom objects, but I snort.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been here for you like I should have been,” Presley stares at me, tears welling in her eyes.

I sniffle. “I swear, if you start crying, I’m going to start crying. No crying.”

“The game is almost over… if you want to watch it.” My mom’s voice is soft. “Would that help?”

They both look at me expectantly, and when I nod, grabbing a huge spider roll, Presley whoops, turning on the TV.

And there he is. He’s just caught a touchdown pass, and the Beavers are up by twenty-one points. It’s a blow-out. There’s only half a minute left on the clock.

The camera pans to the crowd, then zooms in on Ashley and Tiffany, shaking their poms.

I groan, then close my eyes, shoving the whole spider roll piece in my mouth.

Frankly, a bad idea, considering how much soft-shell crab was hanging out in that bad boy.

“Beavers win,” the announcer says, and I crack an eye open. My cheer friends are off the screen, the image replaced by one of the team rushing onto the field. “And what’s this? Wide receiver Tyler Matthews is pulling off his jersey. It’s close to thirty degrees outside here, folks. This is something I haven’t seen before!”

I stare at the screen, my cheeks as full as a chipmunk’s as the camera zooms in on my goof of a husband. He’s dancing as he takes off his jersey, then his pads.

I squint.

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