I close my eyes. Why does it have to be him?
When I don’t respond, Michael leans closer. So close I can smell his fresh scent. “Magnolia, I can help.”
The way he says my name sends shivers down my arms. I open my eyes and turn, and there he is. I don’t know why, but it’s always a shock to my system when I see him. Like I’m being slowly killed with low-voltage electricity.
His two clingers watch me with annoyance. Probably because I’m sucking up time with their precious Olly.
“Michael.” I clear my throat. “Thanks, but I’m good. I’ll just put everything back.” Tears fill my eyes as I apologize to Edith, who gives me a sympathetic nod.
“It’s okay, honey.” She looks around briefly and then hands me the apples and two boxes of macaroni. “Go ahead and take these. I know you’re good for it.”
That makes the tears come faster. I’ve been trying so hard to pay for everything, to be responsible, and I can’t even balance my damn checkbook correctly. “No, really. It’s okay.” I swipe at my eyes and take all the bags and put them in my cart. “I’ll return the groceries. Put them back where they belong.”
Michael says my name again so forcefully that I still. Then he grumbles, “Why are you so damn stubborn? I said I can help you.”
Finally, I face him. He studies me from head to toe. Probably notices the hole in my old Chucks and how my jeans are torn because I accidentally ripped them when I was trying to hang a door, not because I bought them fashionably shredded. My hair is in an ugly, tangled bun, and by now my face looks like I have scarlet fever.
I try to whisper to him, but his entourage leans closer to eavesdrop, so I grab his shirt and pull him close to me. Between clenched teeth, I grit, “I don’t need you to come to my rescue, okay? I’m not your responsibility.”
His eyes narrow. “Sebastian would want me to buy you food, dingdong.”
Of course. The only reason he’d help me is because he’s best friends with my brother. Not because we used to be friends.
I stand there while he wobbles on his crutches and tosses a few twenties to Edith. Humiliation burns every inch of me as his two friends whisper to each other.
“Do you need a ride home?” he asks. “It’s raining out.”
“I’m good.”
“Does that mean you actually have a car, or are you planning to hoof it home in the freezing rain and risk pneumonia?”
I look down at my tattered Chucks, unwilling to mention my twenty-year-old Ford Focus. It’s old as hell and sometimes doesn’t want to shift into gear, but it runs. “I’m glad to see you have so much faith in me.” Resigned, I meet his eyes. “Some things never change, huh?” Before he can respond, I motion to the groceries. “Thank you for the food. I’ll pay you back. I promise.”
If I have to go without heating my house, I’ll pay him back.
Unlike him, I always keep my promises.
3
OLLY
My heart always feels like it’s going to pound out of my chest when I’m at the doctor’s office. The smell of disinfectant and the stuffy air in the patient rooms instantly remind me of those days right after my injury, when I wasn’t sure what the prognosis would be.
Dad sits in the corner with his face in the newspaper. His remote exterior doesn’t fool me. I know he’s as invested in my recovery as I am. He and my mom have attended every one of my games and scrimmages since I was in peewee. If I’m playing football, they’re in the stands. There hasn’t been a game where my mom hasn’t lost her voice from cheering for my team.
The fact that he made the forty-minute drive to take me to this appointment speaks volumes.
While they couldn’t afford my surgery, they made it happen. It makes me that much more determined to recover and get back on the field so I can pay them back. Their farm is in shambles, and it’s because all their money goes to me and Gramps.
“The swelling looks much better,” Dr. Curtis says as he gently probes my knee. “You’re lucky. A grade two tear is rare.”
People keep saying I’m lucky. That I only partially tore my ACL. That it didn’t require grafting from some other area of my body to repair.
Missing the last part of the season doesn’t feel lucky, but I’m trying to focus on being grateful, so I nod at him and force a smile. “Think I’ll be back on the field for training this summer?”
My dad lowers the newspaper to listen.
Dr. Curtis gives me one of his deadly serious stares. “With any surgery, I hesitate to make any declarations, but I’d say you have a good chance of being ready to do some training in June.”
