Sage walked around to the other side of the kitchen counter and sat on a barstool. Their place was too small for a dining table. There was barely room for the twin-sized air mattress I inflated each night alongside the loveseat, but it was cozy.
After I’d settled on the other stool, Sage passed me their phone. “The blog.”
I’d meant to look it up after Halloween, but I’d gotten distracted by the Mickeyness of everything.
Curiosity got the better of me, and I skimmed the page as I munched on a slice. There were a series of brief mentions of a dispute between neighbors over property boundaries, speculation about an upcoming city council vote, and a photoof a dog halfway inside a tipped-over trash can. The last entry jumped out.
Roscoe on Sparky’s softball team was spotted eating a burger from Red’s. Will we see him switching jerseys next?
“Wow. There’s a lot on here about the diners.”
“Have you forgotten what it’s like? Remember the candy store that used to be next to Red’s? We got so much shit from people for daring to venture to the other end of Maple Street when we’d go in there to buy sour candy. That rivalry keeps us in business. Loyalty sells. The town loves it, and so do tourists. Dad’s been thinking about making Team Sparky’s merch.”
“Aren’t you tired of it?”
Sage shrugged. “It’s part of the business. I don’t mind.”
I hummed. The feud felt like it was just part of life growing up and I’d never questioned it, but I’d spent almost half my life away from it at this point, and it was hard to remember what it was like.
“Speaking of business, how are the job applications going?”
It was my turn to shrug. “Fine.”
I hadn’t told Sage or my parents that I hadn’t applied for anything yet. Before I was laid off in late September, I’d begun realizing that I’d been unhappy for a while, but the more time passed, the clearer it became that I’d been miserable. I’d regularly worked twelve-hour days because the company refused to properly staff its teams. Impossible workloads and even more impossible expectations. All for what? Watching my blood pressure rise with my bank account? No thanks. The work hadn’t even been satisfying.
“That’s what you’ve said the last several times I’ve asked.”
“I’ll keep you posted when there’s movement. Any thoughts on food we should have for the Christmas Eve dinner? Mom’s digging out some old recipes.”Deflect, deflect, deflect.
We ate and chatted about our favorite dishes Mom and Grandpa made. Eventually, we fell into a comfortable silence while finishing our drinks.
“You sure you’re okay working on this Holiday Hoopla? I didn’t realize when I asked you to go to the meeting for me while I was at the dentist that Bo would make such a big ask. I’m used to interacting with Mickey as I need to on festival stuff and don’t mind.”
“No, it’s fine.” I hid a wince at how quickly I’d responded. “You’re plenty busy, and this won’t take us much time. I actually like helping out.”
Sage smiled. “I appreciate it. It’s great having you back, even if you keep eating my good cheese. You’re such a cheese goblin.”
I tossed an olive at them. “Am not! And you’re the jerk who ate the last of my bread! I had to use the heels for a sandwich.”
“The heels. Heaven forbid you had to use bread on a sandwich.” Sage playfully rolled their eyes.
“It’s not the same, and you know it.”
Our bickering continued the rest of the evening, and my cheeks hurt from grinning so much. It was great spending time with them, and I’d even managed to stop thinking about Mickey. For a little while.
EIGHT
MICKEY
Amos: Oh, god. It keeps getting worse. Check this out: you spread mustard on ham. Not a bad start, but here’s where it gets disgusting. Wait. Let me grab the picture. You have to see it to believe it.
I laughed at Amos’s text as my Dungeons and Dragons group moved over to the bar area of Alex’s finished basement to descend upon the remaining snacks before we packed up and went home. For most of the evening as we’d played, I’d done my best to ignore my phone, but when my friends picked up their phones to text their partners, I seized the opportunity to check for Amos’s texts. Each time one came through, a fluttering sensation raced through my belly.
Now we’d moved onto the hardest part of each game: scheduling the next one.
I joined the crew and snagged one of the last brownies Sam had brought and tuned into the conversation about scheduling our December session, which was going to take a while. Comparing calendars always did.
“I can’t do the twelfth,” Finn said. “Drake and I already have plans.”
