Page 41 of Make The Cut

I hang up, throwing my phone onto the couch.

The phone rings again. I pick it up again just for the satisfaction of yelling at my father.

“Just kidding. You’re not invited to my wedding. There won’t ever be one.”

“Uh, Naoya?”

The voice is soft. Feminine. Sweet.

In other words, it’s not my father.

It’s Poppy.

“Sorry, did I call at a bad time?”

I mutter a curse. “Poppy, I’m sorry, I thought you were… I thought you were someone else. What did you want to talk about?”

“Um… I don’t remember now.”

Is it just me, or does she sound hurt?

“Is everything okay?” My anger at my father melts away, transforming into worry for her. “What’s wrong? Is it your brother?”

“No, um, nothing. I just wanted you to know that I’ll be out of town for Thanksgiving. I’m taking some time off to go visit my family. Is that okay?”

“Yeah, of course, just email me and tell me the dates you’ll be gone.” Shame flushes my neck at the thought that she had to hear my angry outburst at my father.

“Great.” She coughs. “I’m going to go pack, then. Bye!”

Before I can respond, all I get is a dial tone.

I sit on the couch, staring into my empty hands, and question all my life choices.

Chapter Twenty-One: Poppy Black

The drive from Los Angeles to Kentucky always takes longer than I remember. Driving home for the holidays always feels like a short breeze in my mind until I get behind the wheel.

But now, I realize how hard it is to be the only one driving. Last year and all the years before, I would carpool with Ryder. We’d alternate every few hours and complain about each other’s playlists. Now, I’m driving by myself, and Ryder is, well, he’s only God knows where.

Well, not onlyGodknows where. I got in touch with his old college roommate, Paulo, and he told me Ryder’s in El Nido with him, in the Philippines. It hurts that he wants to be with Paulo more than he wants to see his family for Thanksgiving.

Then again, some kind of family we’ve been to. River took his money and blew it on an unprofitable financial deal. Me? I took his secrets and blasted them all over the internet.

Maybe Ryder is the odd one out in our family. River and I are both traitors in different ways. At least River can claim he’s been scammed.

The thought cuts deeper than I want to admit. Growing up, I always felt like the odd one out, the little girl always trailing behind her two older brothers, hoping they’d let her join in on the fun. Now, I can’t help but feel that way again, like I’m always two steps behind them, tagging along or being left out of the party. Even though I don’t know if Ryder and River are talking—a part of me wonders if I’ll always be the one they exclude. If I’ll always have to fight for my family’s attention—for my parents to care about me as much as they did their firstborn wild child or their golden-boy middle son.

Finally, after three stops to acquire chicken nuggets—they’re advertisingMake the Cuton the box, and Naoya’s signature smirk stares back at me from the cardboard carton—and listening to Naoya’s newest album on repeat, I pull into the driveway of my parents’ cozily furnished bungalow.

Growing up, we lived in a trailer, so any space larger than a shoebox can feel homey to me. But now, pulling up without Ryder there makes me feel…

Well, kind of lonely. And dreading the questions my mom will have for me.Where’s Ryder? Why won’t he talk to us? Why didn’t he talk to you? Why aren’t you guys talking? Are you in a fight? I told you…

It’s enough to make my teeth ache, and not from the candy. On the drive here, I bought a bag of sour peach rings. Without Ryder here to help me finish them off, I only ate half.

The barrage of complaints and interrogations will only make my already-throbbing temples ache more. I wish I was in L.A. even as I step into the door and smell turkey, cranberry sauce, and my mom’s famous stuffing. I set down my duffel bag and plop it at my feet. The dog doesn’t even come up to greet me, but then I remember that poor Rosie died a few years ago and wouldn’t be able to greet me anyway. I take a moment to mourn her wagging tail and her full-body sheds that left white fur all over my clothes.

“I’m home!” I yell. The front door isn’t locked—it never is—and the house is surprisingly quiet for Thanksgiving. I hear the muted cheering and yells of a football game in the living room, while the sounds of clanking silverware, bubbling pots, and clinking glasses emanate from the kitchen.

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