Page 116 of Not Just a Trick Play

I manage a nod and squeeze her back, swallowing the lump in my throat. At least I don’t have to deal with the rest of the nosy horde. I look around.

I plaster on a happy face for the kids, but that’s all I have the energy for.

By the time we sit down to eat, I’m down to curt nods and one-word replies, the international language of the emotionally unavailable.

Dish after dish appears: green bean casserole, glazed carrots, Brussels sprouts with bacon, and, of course, the star of the show—the annual ham. Every year, the family switches up who carves it, but I always surrender my turn. Cue the usual bickering over knife skills—the same argument that’s been going on since forever.

I force myself to bite into the generous slice on my plate.

Pretty sure it’s not supposed to taste like rubber. Is heartbreak wrecking my tastebuds along with my life? Awesome.

I’m banking on everyone blaming my mood on the playoffs. But they were there, they saw me after, and they’ve seen me lose before. It’s never stopped me.

As the night drags on, more and more glances zing back and forth across the table, silent conversations happening midair. I sigh. My sisters would never hack it in the CIA.

As the meal is wrapping up, Beatrice stands and says, “Jake, can you come help?”

“What?”

“Help. Inside.”

“With what?” I’m tired. Bone-deep tired. But I know there’s no getting out of this.

“With…things.” There’s a significant lilt in her voice. She won’t make a scene in front of the kids.

I get up and stalk to the kitchen. The rest of the women march in after me, single file, Mom taking up the rear.

We squeeze into the space, usually so large, except for when OG Cunningham is present.

I lean against the fridge, and they close in. There’s a tiny flicker of annoyance that I’m getting grilled yet again, but it’s barely a blip in the emptiness swallowing me.

I glance around, noting the familiar surroundings. Despite the feast, the place is spotless. The only evidence of carnage of any sort is a few pans on the drying rack. Mom was big on cleaning as she cooked and imparted that life lesson early.

“What is wrong? What is going on?” My mother’s like a dog with a bone.

Might as well rip the Band-Aid off. No way am I repeating this more than once.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Amelia and I are done. Not together anymore.” My eyes drift to the pasta pot that’s part of the drying ensemble. Seriously, why bother with one when a regular pot and a strainer do the job?

“What did you do?” Mom snaps me back to the saga at hand.

I turn to her, scowling. “What didIdo?” My voice is indignant.

She crosses her arms over her chest and waits.

“Sheended things.”

It’s quiet as those words settle in.

“Oh, honey.” Mom’s eyes soften.

Carla’s expression is confused and disappointed. “But you were so good together. Anyone could see that.”

“Apparently not,” I grunt, turning my attention to the backsplash. A cheese grater’s on a hook by the sink, and right now it feels like it’s been used on my heart. “She decided tohead back to England. Her tours were tanking. There was an issue with her apartment. I told her to move in with me. But her grandmother offered her the inn. So she’d rather return to the same town as Pencil Dick instead of letting me take care of her.”

“And you got pissed,” Yvonne says, arms crossed. “Guess who is the pencil dick now? She doesn’t need someone totake careof her. She needs to know you’ll support her while she figures things out herself.”

“Iwassupporting her. I was ready to invest in her tours. I was giving her everything I thought she wanted. She wouldn’t have to worry about anything.”

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