Page 52 of Play Maker

“Iamsurprisingly likable,” Maggie agrees.

Skinner shakes his head in mock defeat. “Fine. But when you come back wearing a squirrel pelt and communicating in whistles, Iwillbe there to sayI told you so.”

Maggie just grins wider. “You can hold the glitter cannon at the finale.”

Phones sound off in a domino effect, and I pull mine out of my pocket to see if I missed a message.

Huh, my lucky day. “Not it.”

Iz stands up. “Oh please, they know it’s your day off; they aren’t sending you all over BV to do this or grab that.”

“Guess we’re out.” Mags smiles. “There’s a buddy system for the underpaid and underappreciated, too.”

“Wish I could help.” Skinner holds up his hands and wiggles his fingers. “But I need to keep these million-dollar mittens safe from hangnails and slivers.”

Oh man, I wonder if Kolby’s up there, checking his email now.

I look up, and he’s coming down the stairs.

“Oh shit, man, look at you all showered and wearing yesterday’s clothes.”

“Don’t have to be dirty just because we’re displaced,” Kolby says as he walks over, leans in, and sniffs him. “Skinner man, you stink.”

The girls are taking their damn time … retying their boots.

“Sleep well?” Skinner asks him, too light, too innocent.

“Like a rock,” he mutters, stealing the last slice of bacon from his plate.

“Funny,” Skinner says. “I could’ve sworn I heard someone stomping around up there like they were trying to break the bed frame and stay silent about it.”

Kolby rolls his eyes. “Was that before or after your snoring rattled the rafters?”

Maggie snorts, and Izzy full-on cackles.

Skinner just smirks, tapping a finger to his temple. “Touché, Grimes, touché.”

Maggie glances at me. “You heading over to Riley’s now?”

“Yeah.” I stand.

“We’ll walk with you,” Izzy says.

Mags links her arm with Izzy’s. “Buddy system.”

“Were a thrupple.” Iz wags her brows.

“You’re something,” I say as I head to the door.

* * *

We’re boxing up Riley’s room, and that somehow feels more impossible than it should. Not hard in a sad way—she’s not moving far, only twenty minutes away, which is closer than when she lived in Syracuse—but still.

“It’s the end of an era. Her shelves are bare, her throw pillows are scattered across half a dozen boxes, and we keep finding weirdly sentimental things she swore she didn’t care about,” Mom says as she folds a stack of pastel baby onesies Riley ordered “just to manifest.”

Grandma Maggie, glasses halfway down her nose, is sorting books into piles like she’s judging their literary taste. She’d find mine a little too spicey, I’m sure.

“You girls have no idea how much stuff your sister hoards.” She shakes her head at the third copy ofWhat to Expect When You’re Expecting. “She already expects.”

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