Page 55 of The Games We Play
She could push me away all she wanted, but I wasn’t going anywhere. I checked in, I hovered, I annoyed the hell out of her—and I’d keep doing it. Because once someone was in my circle, I loved them hard.
Maybe too hard sometimes.
I made them my priority, often at the cost of myself. I was working on that—slowly, painfully learning that I mattered too. That taking care of myself didn’t mean abandoning the peopleI loved. So for now, I took a deep breath, refocused on the pepperoni in front of me and the way Sandy folded her napkin like she was setting a place at a five-star restaurant.
“Have you heard from your mother?” she asked suddenly, dabbing her mouth with that perfectly creased napkin before placing it neatly back on the table.
With the holiday approaching, I guess I didn’t need to be so thrown off by her curiosity.
I let out a short, bitter scoff and leaned back in my chair, crossing my legs beneath the hem of my dress.
“Nope,” I said, tossing my hair over my shoulder. “Don’t plan to, either.”
Sandy didn’t reply, just nodded with that soft understanding that came from someone who knew the situation.
I usually saw my mother once a year—ifshe felt like coming back to Faircloud.
The day I turned eighteen, I was handed my freedom like a set of hand-me-down keys and a goodbye. My mom sold her house, packed her things, and disappeared from my life like she’d been waiting for the exact moment I was no longer her legal responsibility.
It wasn’t that my childhood was tragic—it was just… bare. Minimal. I had food, a roof, and clothes, but no one tucked me in. No one showed up for parent-teacher conferences or clapped from the bleachers. I spent most of my time raising myself.
That’s probably why I’d latched onto Aspen and her family so fiercely. They’d given me something I never had—a sense of being wanted. Being chosen.
I didn’t carry resentment toward my mom. I’d made peace with the absence, the silence, the indifference. But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t leave marks.
I think that’s why I poured so much of myself into others. Because deep down, there was a little girl in me who neverthought she mattered in the first place. The same little girl that had no one cheering in her corner.
So, I learned to clap for myself.
I became my own cheerleader.
And somehow, in the quiet glow of a flower shop back room, with pizza on mismatched plates and a woman who pretended not to limp, I continued to learn I was worth something more.
Sandy had been there for me, and I was always going to be there for her.
For the rest of our dinner, Sandy and I laughed and gossiped like we always did—an easy rhythm between us, filled with warmth and routine. She filled me in on the latest Faircloud drama, from Mrs. Winchester throwing a fit at the new candy shop owner over a parking spot to something juicier—news about the new chef in town.
Apparently, some big-deal city chef had packed up his knives and moved to Faircloud of all places. Rumor was, he bought The Coffee Cup—the same little café where Aspen used to work before moving to Cassidy Ranch. Ironically, a few doors down from Petal Pusher.
The people of Faircloud were already stirring about it, naturally. Some were concerned he’d attract the “wrong crowd,” whatever that meant. I, for one, didn’t see the problem. Honestly, Faircloud could use a little shaking up. Some fresh energy. And, selfishly, maybe even a dish that didn’t involve pepperoni and a cardboard box.
A girl can only eat so many slices of pizza before the spark fades.
Sandy, on the other hand, was practically buzzing with opinions. She leaned back in her chair, clutching her mug of chamomile tea like it was gospel.
“Can you believe it?” she huffed. “He wants to turn it into some fancy steakhouse.A steakhouse, Penelope. Is that what we need?”
I smiled as I picked up her plate and headed for the sink. “Don’t be so close-minded. It could be good for everyone.”
She waved a dismissive hand at me. “No, Penelope. It isn’t.”
“What about southern hospitality?” I teased. “Aren’t we supposed to be welcoming?”
She took a long, dramatic sip from her mug. “Bless his heart,” she muttered with every ounce of southern sarcasm she had.
I laughed, the sound echoing softly in the quiet shop as I rinsed our dishes.
When everything was clean and put away, I stayed with Sandy while she locked up, making sure she got to her car safely.
