Page 42 of Make The Cut

I kick off my cowboy boots and stretch my sore legs. I thought I would be welcome at home, but I’m not sure I know where that is anymore.

Home feels like getting ice cream fromScoop, Scoop, and Scoop Some Moreand then watchingBridgertonwith Naoya. Home feels like—

Home feels like something it shouldn’t.

I walk into the kitchen to greet my mother, kissing her on the cheek. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

She returns the greeting, pulling me into a warm hug and causing her spoon to drip cranberry sauce on the countertop. “Oh, Poppy, honey, it’s so good to have you home. You look tired as all get out. Why don’t you go watch the game with your brothers—I mean, River?”

My heart lurches in my chest when she saysbrothersbefore she corrects herself, but I don’t know if it’s from anxiety or excitement. “No, I want to help. What is there for me to do?”

She assigns me the task of peeling more sweet potatoes than we can eat and starts chattering on and on about Ryder, the steady patter of conversation keeping my mind occupied as my hands remain busy. Her lack of questions formeleaves me feeling both empty and comfortable, familiar enough with my mother’s tendencies to ask about her children in order of favouritism. But for once, I wish she’d care about me more than her favourite son. I wishIcould be the child she’s the proudest of.

“And as for Ryder, why won’t he settle down already? I’m sure he’s busy touring the world or whatever, but I’d like to see him settled with a nice girl. Your father and I aren’t getting any younger, after all. Is he seeing anyone? Do you know?”

I’m the last person Ryder would talk to about his dating life for multiple reasons. First, I never approved of any of his girlfriends back when we were still talking. Now, to him, I’ve been outed as the world’s worst secret keeper. “You know he doesn’t talk to me about the girls he dates.”

“And what about you, Poppy? Is there anyone special in your life?”

My mind flashes back to my last phone call with Naoya and a lump rises in my throat. He sounded so distant. So angry. So determined to shut out the world and everyone in it. “No. There’s nobody.”

She clucks her tongue. “That’s a shame. I know your work keeps you busy, but… you should put yourself out there more, honey.”

I think I got burned without even knowing I was next to the flame.

“How’s River been?” I change the subject, trying not to nick my thumb as I peel the sweet potato.

She sighs. “Him and Ryder… They used to be as thick as thieves.”

I remember when River dared Ryder to jump into the creek, and Ryder broke his collarbone. I spent that summer being forced to cater to Ryder’s every whim while he complained about the broken bone. I mean, I’m sure it hurt. But he didn’t have to ask me to get his slippers for him when he was capable of walking. He broke hiscollarbone, not his leg. “Then there was that time that River and Ryder were shooting BB guns at squirrels—“

“And shot the neighbour’s poor Chihuahua?” She shakes her head while stirring the cranberry sauce. “That poor dog has never walked the same. At least Mrs. Chesterfield wasn’t too mad about it.”

“Yeah, after she forced the two of them to pull up all her weeds in the middle of July.” I laugh at the memory. Mom made me bring over lunch and lemonade for them every day that boiling summer. “That was so long ago, but sometimes it feels like yesterday.”

“Eighteen years can go by in the blink of an eye,” she says sagely. “Now, why don’t you go tell your father and brother to come help set the table?”

I glance down at the raw sweet potatoes. “But you haven’t even finished—“

“Poppy,” she says, in a tone that I can’t disobey.

Sighing, I wash my hands and go find my father and brother in the den. The Steelers are playing the Patriots, but I’ve never been able to find any interest in football. The closest I came to caring about sports was when I dated a guy who played baseball, but it ended when he realized I had no idea how the game worked, and I didn’t even know what an inning was. I thought it was a type of belly button piercing.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” I say.

River picks up his beer and hands me one. “I’ll cheers to that.”

His slurred words and glazed eyes suggest he’s had more than one beer. I glance over at my dad, wondering why he hasn’t stopped him from drinking when a) it’s a holiday and b) River has been in rehab before. However, Bruce Black just gets up and slaps me on the back.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Pops,” my dad says. “How’s Cali treating you?”

“Cali’s fine.” I plop down on the couch between them, since they’ve left a sizable gap on the couch. “Mom wants you guys to set the table.”

Groaning, River gets up. He’s still walking in a straight line, but I have no idea if he’ll be able to set the table without breaking a china plate or two. I cast an eye at my dad.

He nods. “Well, I guess I should go do that, then.”

Ah. The couch and the TV all to myself. This rarely happens. I flip through the channels until I find one playingMake the Cutand pause.

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