Page 11 of Final Down

Ooof. I can’t do that.

“It’s a little short,” I go with. She laughs out once, but it’s more of a sob than a chuckle.

“We just need to kind of figure out the look. Here, let me try a few things. Is that all right?” I meet her stare, and she nods.

Her panic wrangled, at least for the moment, I pull open the drawer and take out my old flat iron and a few of the hair bands my sister’s collected. I shake out the headband from the back of the drawer, the yellow and blue floral-print one I gave her when I left for college. She used to wear it all the time, and it may be ready for its comeback.

“So, what prompted this makeover attempt?” I don’t make eye contact, instead focusing on plugging in the iron and lining up the products and tools I’m going to need. There’s likely a boy or some popular girls or some trend at school involved. I just hope it isn’t a bully.

“Rachel cut her hair last weekend, and it’s this really cute short style that barely reaches her shoulders, and she has these bangs that like, I don’t know, sort of sweep over her forehead, and, well . . . Kaden told Jace he thought Rachel looked cute, and . . .”

I smirk to myself as my sister’s ramble goes on, unraveling the reasons behind a lot of her behavior over the last few months. I lock away that his name is Kaden, a fact I’ll share with Mom later so we can do our own investigating of this boy who has set off Ellie’s first real bout of angst. Plus, her best friend, Rachel, getting his attention might mean my sister is in for a firstheartbreak sooner rather than later. I don’t like that for her, but it’s both inevitable and necessary.

“Okay, well, first thing you need to learn is that you and Rachel are two totally different people—personalities, interests, and . . .hair.”

I gather Ellie’s thick hair into my hand and hold it at the base of her neck. With everything pulled back, the unusually short bangs almost have a modern look. If I can get her on board, I think we can work with it.

“I hate my hair,” my sister mutters. My heart deflates a little.

“I’ve been there,” I hum, not dwelling on the negative feelings longer than necessary. I validate her, but we’re moving past this. She doesn’t see it now because she’s thirteen, but in a few years, Ellie is going to look like she belongs on a runway. Her large eyes and high cheekbones are going to fill out and come out of the awkward baby-bird stage to become something interesting and beautiful.

“Do you trust me?” I snag a hairpin from the counter and clamp it between my closed lips while I hold the flat iron in a ready position to swoop down her hair.

Ellie’s eyes flit to mine in the reflection and despite looking nervous, she gives me a tiny nod.

It takes me about ten minutes to get her hair completely ironed out and straight. I do my best to dry the bangs she cut, too, and give them enough lift to curve into her forehead rather than stab out into the universe like those pointing things they put over storefronts to keep birds from nesting. I turn her to face me, mostly so she can’t watch me work with her hawk-like eyes.

I want to surprise her with how beautiful she is, and a few small accents with some blush and a little eyeliner might make her believe Rachel’s new haircut isn’t all that. The final piece is my old headband, and I slide it in place with the short bangs lined up along her hairline. I hand her the deep red lipstick,something I’m sure our mom would say is a little too old for her, but is just what she needs, and then spin her to take in her reflection. Her eyes flash wide, just for a second, and then her mouth ticks up on the corners.

“What do you think?” I ask. I know how I feel—I outdid myself, and also, cosmetology school really was an option for me. But what’s important is what Ellie sees in the mirror, and how it makes her feel about herself.

“I look like I should drive to school,” she whispers, a mischievous grin playing at her lips. Her eyes flit to mine briefly, and I laugh.

“Don’t push it. I’m already going to have to sneak you out with that lipstick. Go ahead and put some on, then we have got to go. I’ll sign you in late and tell them it was a family emergency.”

Ellie flings herself into me, her long skinny arms wrapping around me as her cheek pushes into my white T-shirt. I’m sure she’ll smudge me with blush, but this hug from my sister is worth every bit of laundry.

“Thanks, Peyt,” she says, her long lashes dabbing at her cheeks. I could cry at this visual, and she’s only my sister. I wonder how my mom handles watching us grow up. Also, I put her through a lot of hell. I owe her one of these hugs.

“Anytime, Elle. Now, get to it,” I say, kissing the top of her head, then leaving her to finish getting ready.

I wait by my Jeep, flashing my mom a thumbs-up when she holds out her palms, likely curious what the hang-up was. I’ll fill her in later. For now, I need my sister to hustle.

Ellie skips out of the house a minute later, and while my mom’s double-take signals that she noticed the change in her look, she doesn’t say a word as I usher my sister into the passenger side. She’s at school ten minutes later, and after I finish signing her in, I spend a few minutes watching the long lines of kindergarteners weave along the walkways as they headin and out of recess. One day, one of those spunky kids is going to be mine.

I leave my longing behind me, heading to the parking lot, and promptly driving from the elementary school to Coolidge High, where Wyatt’s truck sits next to my father’s. The two of them are on the field, arms crossed as they talk, their focus on the end zone and the ball caddy that I have a feeling is there for them more than their players. My dad loves reliving his past. And right now, Wyatt needs to build something of his own to relive.

This nudge is going to take a little more than a flat-iron and some makeup. But I’m up to the task.

Chapter Five

Ihope when I’m in my fifties, I can move half as well as my father-in-law. I was mostly kidding when I slapped the ball in my hand and told him to go out for a pass. When he took off in a slow jog, I figured I’d drop one in for an easy catch, and that would be the end of it. But now it’s been thirty minutes, and his legs don’t seem tired at all. If anything, that fucker is getting faster—and my throws are going deeper.

Reed crosses the end zone as I drop back and sling the ball thirty yards to hit him in the chest. He palms the ball over his head as he runs toward the field goal, leaping to dunk it over the bar. The ball barely clears it, and I laugh out hard, a bit relieved that he’s finally not great at something—jumping.

Peyton’s whistle from the sidelines sells the move, and Reed picks up the ball then jogs over with a proud grin on his face. He may as well have hurdled the goal post himself based on the wide-ass toothy smile he’s sporting.

“You still got it, Daddy,” Peyton says, hugging her dad sideways.

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