Page 115 of Not Just a Trick Play

The urge to cry hits me, but instead, a chuckle slips out at her awful wordplay. It’s like a break in the clouds.

She grins, and my heart twists at seeing the same sparkle in her eyes that Jake gets when he makes me laugh.

“Amelia, I love you, whether or not you’re with him. You’re your own person. I know how hard it is trying to be seen for yourself when everyone lumps you with a group—I mean, I’m part of the Cunningham box-set, after all. But the good thing is: if one of us faceplants, there’s a whole crew ready and willing to scrub off the dirt. Trust yourself to trust other people.”

She’s right. I should have trusted myself to trust Jake. I should have trusted in us. I’m going to get him back. Tether him tome,if that’s what it takes.

CHAPTER FIFTY

JAKE

My emotions area three-sided seesaw of anger, misery, and numbness, and I can’t get my balance. Today seems to be weighted in favor of pain.

Again.

I have no fucking clue who I am anymore.

Once upon a time, I used to be the guy who let crap roll off his back like a duck, but now there’s no letting things go.

What is this, then? Identity theft? That’s my closest guess. Because this damn well isn’t me.

Fuck, my head’s a mess. I want to crawl into bed and sleep for years and years. No Rip Van Winkling for me, though. I could be on life support, and my family would still haul me in for Christmas Eve dinner. And playing Mr. Funny Guy? It’s more than I can handle right now.

I delay as long as humanly possible before schlepping to the West Village, my feet dragging like I’m walking through molasses as I pass by all the decked-out homes.

When I reach Mom’s, inflatable reindeer wait on each step of the stoop, their noses blinking in sync, and a wreath the size of a hula hoop is attached to the door.

With any luck, people haven’t realized I’m MIA yet. The last thing I need is to become the subject of a “Where’s Waldo?” manhunt across the city.

“Hi,” I mumble, letting myself in.

Mom’s waiting in the foyer, as if she was preparing to send out a search party. So much for not noticing my absence.

But she barely looks me over. Instead, her gaze darts behind me. “Where’s Amelia?”

“No ‘hello, child of my loins’?” I force a smile.

She gives me an exasperated look. “Hello, child of my loins. Where’s Amelia?”

I shrug. “Not here.”

The words are bitter on my tongue. She’s probably on a plane back to England.

I toss my coat on the helpful Santa just past the foyer and stalk inside before Mom can say more. There is safety in numbers.

But that’s also a sucky idea. Because around me, my family is all smiles and laughter. Christmas music plays in the background.

My throat closes for a second, and I have the sudden urge to kick the tree over like a toddler in the middle of a tantrum. Scrooge personified. I want to bah humbug everything.

Instead, I greet the sisters, offer hearty, though somewhat mechanical backslaps the bros-in-law, and hug the kids as per standard operating procedure.

One of my nephews runs up and offers me a candy cane. At an angle, it kind of looks like a Twizzler. My gut clenches.

I start to shake my head but catch Beatrice’s glare over her son’s dark locks. Bending down, I accept the sugary gift. “Thanks, buddy.” I get a toothy smile in response.

Yvonne walks over, the glint in her eyes that tells me she knows what went down with Amelia. I brace for impact.

She pulls me in for a tight hug. “I haven’t said anything to anyone,” she says under her breath. She might be my favorite sister, after all.

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