Page 112 of Every Chance After

“Don’t worry, Marigold. I’ll avenge you,” she says.

“Only because she knows all the answers,” Gil protests. “I’ve never met a game maker before. This is really cool.”

She shrugs sheepishly. “Thanks.”

“You were always creative,” Gil says. “I loved your sets for SOM.”

“SOM?” I cut in, desperate to be included.

“The Sound of Music,” he says. “The musical we worked on together in high school. Marnie constructed backgrounds out of recycled bottle tops.”

“The hills were alive with Mountain Dew caps,” she sings with a giggle.

“One of my favorite things,” he hums. “Oh, that and wine corks.”

“Yes, it was surprising to discover how many bottles of wine Seagrove goes through in a month,” she returns.

“Probably still not enough,” he jokes, clinking his glass with hers and making her laugh.

I hate this.

“I must’ve been away at school. I don’t remember seeing that one,” I say.

“Yeah, you weren’t there. A good thing, probably.” His grin falls as his eyes cut to hers across the board. Worry flashes across her face at whatever memory they share, and he recovers with, “I mean, we were behind the scenes.”

“Yeah, and everyone’s seen SOM,” she tacks on weakly.

“You didn’t miss anything,” he says, assuring me that the opposite is true.

I know to drop it—Marina doesn’t want to talk about it. And I don’t want to make her more uncomfortable. Or more upset.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” I say before retreating to the kitchen again. From there, I see Marina mouth the wordsthank youover their game, and he gives her a reassuring smile.

Not only do they have history, they now have a thing between them that I’m not privy to.

I really fucking hate this.

We eat outside on the rugged picnic table that came with the house. Gil carries the bread. Marigold gets the roasted veggies. I deliver the fish straight from the grill to the middle.

There’s a slight hesitation to sit, no one knowing where they should be, until Gil plops down and pats the space beside him for Marina to follow. Marigold quickly steals the seat across, leaving me facing Gil, who smirks smugly.

A collective coo (started by Marina) erupts when I peel the aluminum foil apart. A wave of rosemary, lemon, butter, and garlic steam rushes out, and they see the fish inside: two lake trout, freshly caught this afternoon. It’s a masterpiece.

“Looks good. Grady’s a gourmet when it comes to fish,” Gil says, throwing me a bone.

Marina nods. “Impressive. Looks delicious.”

“It’s always a work in progress,” I say, offering her a weak smile. “I tried to get all the bones, but be careful.”

I serve her first, transferring what I hope to be the best portion onto her plate. Gil adds the roasted veggies.

“Thanks,” she says, glancing from me to him.

The food is surprisingly perfect, considering my anxiety while preparing it. Light conversation ensues, disregarding me and mostly spear-headed by Marina as if she’s promised herself not to make this weird for the others.

But soon, silence prevails, and her attention drifts. “So, what’s with the piano? Do you play?”

“He plays,” Gil answers for me, “or he did. He’s really good, too.”

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