Page 30 of Someone to Have
“Hell, yeah,” Iris adds.
Avah points an elegant finger in my direction. “All the fuck-the-big-C vibes for Sloane, but be honest. Are you going to audition for real?”
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, feeling the weight of their eyes on me. “I...”
My voice cracks, so I clear my throat and try again. “That’s theplan, although I’m terrified I’ll screw it up. I don’t blame you guys for not believing in me. I don’t want to fail at something so simple when it means so much to Sloane.”
“We believe,” Iris interrupts, leaning forward. “And Sloane would kick your ass if she knew you were using her as an excuse.”
Sadie nods. “Remember when she dragged you up on stage for karaoke night last summer?”
A reluctant smile tugs at my lips. “I mangled the entire first verse of ‘Landslide’ until Iris joined in.”
“But you kept going,” Iris says softly. “By the end, you had everyone in tears.”
“Including Sloane,” Avah adds.
The memory washes over me. Sloane’s face in the dim light of Tony’s, tears streaming down her cheeks, her hands clapping wildly when I finished. How she’d hugged me afterward and whispered, “I knew you had it in you.”
“I can do this.” I look at each of my friends and see only unwavering support gazing back at me. “I’mgoingto do this.”
“Do the damn thing.” Iris pumps her fist in the air.
Sadie high-fives me. “To finally getting your ass back on stage.”
“And to Sloane,” I add, my voice steady now. There’s a resolve building inside me that feels foreign but also right. “She’s going to be sitting front row on opening night. I just know it.”
“To Sloane,” they echo.
As I hug my friends, I realize that Sloane’s bucket list challenge has taken on a deeper meaning for me. It’s about each of us rising to face whatever challenges come our way—together. And I’m not going to let any of us down.
I hope.
8
ERIC
It’s almosteight-thirty by the time we get home from dinner at Marty Maxwell’s Sunday night. Toby was there with one of his buddies from the fire station and took great pleasure in whooping Rhett’s ass at ping-pong. Over and over since the kid just wouldn’t give up.
The oldest of the Maxwell children, Elise, also attended the weekly family dinner with her insurance salesman husband and their two kids. The twelve-year-old, Sydney, is a budding volleyball player like her mom and spent most of the evening setting the ball she brought with her against the wall in the front hallway.
No one seemed to find anything odd about the rhythmic thumping. It just added to the amiable cacophony. There was a lot of laughter, back-slapping, and yammering on about the glory days. Marty and Toby also gave Rhett the history of the Skylark High hockey program.
I’ve visited enough of my teammates’ families over the years to be comfortable with that kind of loud, over-the-top energy, but I have a hard time imagining Taylor enjoying it. And since she didn’t show up for the meal, my imagination ran wild with potential reasons why.
Marty told the group she’d texted that she was sick and didn’t want to infect anyone, so she’d be there next Sunday. But she and Rhett had their first tutoring session this morning. Other than the bruising and scrape still marring her creamy skin, she seemed completely healthy.
There’s a light snow falling, so Rhett and I kick off our boots and hang up jackets on the hooks near the apartment’s front door.
“Hey bud, why don’t you take a shower before bed?” Rhett is already heading for his bedroom, so I’m talking to his back. “Do you have any homework to finish?”
“Bruh.” He spins and gives me a withering look. “I showed you my planner after I finished with Taylor. It’s done. I’m gonna playCall of Duty.”
“After you shower and make your lunch for tomorrow.” I can’t decide if the nagging parent thing is good or bad.
He groans. “Can’t I just buy in the cafeteria?”
“We have leftovers. Homemade.”
