Page 44 of From Now On

Conor laughs.

“Have fun sleeping on the floor tonight, Aidan,” Harlow teases.

I’m smiling wide, which I don’t realize until my cheeks start to ache a little. I’ve spent a decent amount of time around Conor, mostly because he spends a decent amount of time at my and Harlow’s place. But the dynamic with his teammates—and Rylan—is new to me. In my experience, it’s not that common to encounter friends who act like family. Aside from Harlow, my closest friend at Holt is Mary, and even with her there are times when I’m unsure what to say.

“Rylan would never make me sleep on the floor,” Aidan retorts. “Because then I couldn’t lick her?—”

Rylan slaps a hand over his mouth. When it falls away, Aidan is grinning wide. Rylan doesn’t manage to keep the smile off her face either.

Hunter clears his throat loudly. “Phillips. We talked about fucking boundaries, remember?”

“Sorry, man. I forgot you’re not getting laid.”

“And I forgot nothing sticks in your brain unless it’s about sex.”

“Not true! Hockey sticks too. Get it? Hockey sticks. Speaking of, the second period has probably started.” Aidan digs his phone out of his pocket. The background is a cute photo of Rylan wearing a pink pom-pom hat. “Fuck. Halifax scored.”

“Told you he would,” Conor says.

That kicks off a hockey conversation full of unfamiliar names and terms that I quickly tune out. Harlow’s texting her friend Landon. Rylan is snuggled against Aidan’s chest while he draws circles on her knee with his free hand.

And I’m overanalyzing Aidan’s comment about Hunter. Does that mean he’snotdating Holly?

Ten minutes later, Conor pulls into a surprisingly full parking lot. I was sort of expecting a small building with a neon beer light, but this place looks bigger and busier than Gaffney’s.

We’re almost to the entrance of Sand Bar when my phone buzzes in my pocket.

I pull it out, and the excitement I was experiencing immediately fizzles into uneasiness.

“Go ahead,” I urge Harlow, who’s walking closest to me. “I’ll be right in.”

“Okay,” she replies, then follows everyone else inside the bar.

I veer left, take a seat on a metal bench by some bushes, pull in a deep breath, and answer the call. “Hey, Dad.”

“Hi, Eve.”

An awkward pause ensues. We have a schedule for speaking—once a month, and always on a Tuesday at eight p.m. Since this is not a Tuesday and it’s past eight, something is going on. And, knowing my dad, it’s not likely to be anything good.

I clear my throat and remind him: “You called me.”

“Oh, right. I just—just got home from Noah’s baseball practice, and thought I’d give you a call.”

My dad coaches the team. Maybe his rejection of parenthood—of me—would sting a little less if he wasn’t such an involved father with his other kids. I always feel like a shitty person for thinking that—for resenting my half-siblings for their happy childhood. But emotions are rarely logical.

“How did practice go?” I ask, acting interested to alleviate a little of my own guilt.

I always ask about my half-siblings. Because it gives us something to talk about and because a petty part of me likes being the bigger person.Let’s talk about the kids youdidn’tabandon!

“Great. Joanna found an indoor batting place in Phoenix, so we hit that a bunch this past winter. He’ll be the star of the team this season.”

“That’s exciting.”

Another beat of silence lingers.

“I just wanted to let you know…I’m not sure whether graduation will work out.”

Notsure. After years of half-assed excuses from my father, which, pathetically, were an upgrade from his prior efforts to pretend I never existed, I’m fluent in what his hedging means.

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