Page 43 of Make The Cut

I watch Naoya judging one contestant’s performance, in a response that’s been turned into a meme and populating the internet, and curl up with a pillow pressed to my chest. I change the channel quickly. What’s the point in dwelling on a guy, even if he is one of my closest friends? He’s not interested in me. He dates leggy supermodels who have my dream job.

“What are you watching?” River’s voice startles me.

“The news,” I say, realizing the channel has landed on CNN.

River sits down next to me. “Mom shooed me out of the dining room when she smelled my breath.”

“At least you didn’t break her nice china.” I try not to laugh. “Why are you drinking, anyway?”

He crosses one leg over the other and tugs up the cuff of his jeans. A black, bulky ankle monitor mars his pale calf. “It’s hard to be sober when you’re spending Thanksgiving under house arrest.”

I don’t say anything. River and I have never been close—Ryder has always been the glue holding us together—and our age difference growing up only cemented the distance between us. I would hardly know how to comfort him now.

The news broadcast ends and a commercial break starts playing, showing an ad forMake the Cut. “Critics are calling it fall’s best talent show yet… The chemistry between Rose and Naoya will make you laugh, while the contestants’ incredible designs and singing abilities will keep you watching…”

“I heard you and Ryder had a falling out.” River pulls his jeans back down to cover the ankle monitor. “What was that about?”

I try to shrug and play it off as nothing. “I may have written a teeny,tinyblog post about him…”

“And?” One eyebrow quirks up.

“It may have gone viral.” I twist off the top of the beer and start drinking, cringing at the taste. Ugh.

“So, you sold his secrets for fame.”

“You could say that.”

“River, Poppy!” my dad yells. “Dinner’s ready!”

We get up and go into the dining room, taking our usual places. I’m next to Mom, while River’s next to Dad, who sits at the head of the table. Only Ryder’s seat is empty. Mom says grace, and then we all dig in.

I wish Ryder’s empty chair didn’t feel like a condemnation of everything I’ve done. I wish I’d never written that blog at all.

“This turkey is delicious,” I say, spooning some gravy and cranberry sauce over my slice of the bird.

“Thank you, Poppy.” My mom practically glows with pride. That expression dims when her gaze lands on my brother. “But, as the proverb goes, better a small dish of vegetables served with love than a fattened calf served with hatred.”

River mutters something under his breath that I don’t catch and don’t want to. “Does anyone want more cornbread?”

Later that night, in my high school bedroom, I do my best to ignore the Justin Bieber, One Direction, and Big Time Rush posters tacked up around the walls. Instead of trying to reminisce on my childhood celebrity crushes, I pull out an old-fashioned piece of lined paper and my pink glitter gel pen, one I bought in high school and left behind. I’m shocked when ink still flows out of it, as I compose my letter to Ryder.

Staring at the page, I struggle to write to him. After everything that’s happened between us—all the ways I’ve hurt him, and all the ways that he’s hurt me—we’re still family. He’s still my brother. I can’t just let this rift between us go on forever.

So I write him a letter, telling him about how our family is. How River is doing. About the conversation Mom had with me, embellishing a few details about how desperate she is for him to settle down. Trying not to think too much of it or edit it, I fold up the paper once the ink is dry and tuck it into an envelope. Then I start packing other things in a box to deliver to him, not caring that the shipping fees will be astronomical. I text Paulo for the address of his beach house and throw in aMake The Cutmerch hoodie that I designed, plus another article of clothing from high school that I poached from his room, and a ton of glitter. After all, what’s a good ole’ sisterly care package without glitter?

Rereading the letter before sealing the envelope, I scratch out Naoya’s name and replace it withmy friend. I don’t need to give him an aneurysm if he finds out that I know Naoya Sugawa personally. Way too personally. Even if it doesn’t count. Even if he’s just a friend. A confirmed bachelor who will be a player for the rest of his life.

I mean, that doesn’t bother me at all. Right?

Just as I’ve gathered everything, folded it neatly into a giant cardboard box, and wrapped it with shipping tape, my mom knocks on my room door.

“What are you up to?” she asks as she pushes the door open immediately after knocking—without waiting for my response.

“I’m mailing this to Ryder,” I say, hauling the box next to the door, where it lands with anoomph.

“That’s nice.” Her smile doesn’t quite reach her teary eyes. “How have you been, honey? We’ve barely gotten the chance to catch up. I heard that you were writing some kind of… gossip blog, out in L.A.?”

I swallow past the lump in my throat. “You know about that, huh?”

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