Page 24

Grayson

When I was a kid, there was this old carnival ride that my friends and I would go on, again and again, screaming and laughing until we threw up. The track was old, and as it moved, it would shake your entire body, making your cheeks jiggle, your hands feel hot and itchy from holding onto the metal bar.

Now, my entire body feels like that.

Shaken. Hot. Fuzzy in the best kind of way—like I’ve just come out of a really, really good movie, emerging into the bright sunlight like a fresh-legged fowl, stumbling and confused at the world around me.

Kissing Astrid wasn’t like coming home—it was like arriving on an entirely different planet. And the moment we started, the moment I pushed through that initial urge to tug at her pants, move things along, I realized that everything felt different from that first time.

That first time, after the wedding, the spark had died. But I was so far inside my head, so busy thinking about the thing while it was happening, rather than actually feeling it, that I’d gone through the motions.

And I’m only just now realizing that I’ve done that a lot. Every time I had sex with a girlfriend, the pleasure took a backseat to the narrative in my head, the paint-by-number that instructed me through the process.

I laugh to myself as I take the exit toward the school. Because for the first time in my life, sex felt like hockey.

I laugh again when I have to rephrase that in my head. We didn’t even have sex— did we? Astrid looked, for all the world, like she was a breath away from an orgasm, but I don’t think she got there. I think my stupid phone interrupted it, pulled her back from the ledge.

If she’d had an orgasm kissing me, would that count as sex? And what would that mean about what happened between us after the wedding? If I’d just slowed down, she would have had a good time?

My thoughts finally shift away from Astrid when I pull up to the school and Callie is waiting at the pickup spot for the junior high. She gets into the car, sitting in the back like she usually does, but something is different today.

Today, she says, “Hey.”

I stare out the windshield as I pull away, heading over to the elementary school, trying not to give away the fact that her little Hey is revolutionary—it’s the first time she’s said anything to me, not about food, her schedule, or how much she hates this situation.

Doing my absolute best to sound nonchalant, like she’s a skittish animal I might scare away with too much enthusiasm, I say, “Hey.”

“There’s a dance this weekend,” she responds, and I realize we’re doing something new for us—saying things back and forth. Having a conversation.

“Oh, yeah?” I’m stalling, trying to figure out what the right move is here. “You going?”

There’s a beat, then she says. “I’ll need a dress. It’s homecoming.”

Homecoming already ?

I bite my tongue as we turn into the entrance to the elementary school—the time is flying past. It was late July when the girls came to Milwaukee, and now it’s early October. We have just one more pre-season game, then the regular season starts.

And Coach pulled me from three pre-season games in a row. I’ve been too afraid to turn on the sports channel, for fear my photo might be blown up on the screen with the word phony written in all caps.

“If you want a dress, we can make sure you get a dress,” I say, pulling up to the curb and finding Athena’s teacher, making eye contact with her. She raises her hand, points Athena to me, and she comes running, opening the car door and climbing inside.

“We learned how to drawl a pumpkin today!” Athena says the moment she launches herself into the backseat. Callie leans over to her, buckling her in, and Athena continues with the description of the pumpkin-drawling situation, pronouncing draw like drawl every time.

The homecoming dress conversation is tabled until Callie finds me in the kitchen later, sidling up to the island as I chop zucchini on a cutting board. Ruby, through Maverick, has informed me that I have to feed the girls vegetables, and that sometimes that means hiding them.

So, I’m going to cook the zucchini with the beef for spaghetti. At first, I think Callie’s appearance in the kitchen is as a spy, and she’s going to rat me out to Athena so she, once again, completely rejects dinner, only eating a few Goldfish before going to bed. But that’s not what happens.

“You really mean it?” Callie asks, and I look at her, mind racing, trying to figure out what she’s talking about. Rolling her eyes, like I’m the most ridiculous person in the world, she says, “About me getting a homecoming dress.”

I set the knife down. This feels like a conversation we should have while I’m not holding a knife.

“Yeah—of course,” I say. “If you want a dress for the dance, we’ll get it for you. Whatever you need, actually. Shoes? Jewelry and makeup—I mean, within reason, I guess—”

She holds her hand up, shaking her head. “I don’t need that stuff. Maybe shoes. When can you take me?”

Panic surges into my throat like acid reflux. When can I take her? I’ve never even bought a suit for myself , let alone taken a girl shopping for a dress. The second I picture the entire ordeal, it sends my anxiety into a tailspin—me waiting outside the dressing room, Callie crying because every dress is ugly, other parents giving me the stink-eye, thinking I’m the worst caregiver in the world.

Then, Callie says, “Maybe Astrid could take me?”

Some of the tension leaves. “Yeah, maybe. Let me talk to her about it. Would you—” I pause, hoping what I say next won’t sour this conversation, turn Callie back to hating me. “Would you want to go with some of the other women on the team? Leo’s mom likes fashion, too, I think.”

Callie’s cheeks flush red. “Yeah. I guess. I don’t care who comes. I just want a dress.”

I nod, picking up the knife, realizing this conversation is done.

Then, surprising me, Callie leans in, whispers, “Athena is sneaking down the stairs. You have five seconds to hide the zucchini before she finds out.”

Launching into vegetable-preservation mode, I scoop all the chopped zucchini up off the cutting board, hurling it into the pan with the meat and sliding a lid over the whole thing just as Athena comes jumping around the corner, her hands up, yelling, “Boo!”

“Ahh!” I jump bringing my hand to my heart, half-performance, half genuine fear that this little girl—and her not-eating tendencies—is going to kill me.

“I got you!” she cries, her squeals so high and happy. “Happy Halloween!”

“It’s not Halloween.” Callie rolls her eyes, picking at her nails. “But you did get him.”

Athena bursts into high-pitched, giggling laughter, her little body folding in half, and when I meet Callie’s gaze over the kitchen island, she shrugs and gives me the smallest, almost cooperative smile.

The girls wash up, I plate the dinner, and we sit down to eat.

I thought my meeting with Astrid was going to be the most stressful part of my day, but sliding the plate in front of Athena is much worse, waiting for the moment she sets her fork down, declaring herself not hungry.

But she doesn’t.

Athena talks for ten minutes straight, telling us about her teacher, who is lovely, her new best friend who has matching shoes to her, and the boy in class who eats his own boogers. And between each story, she scoops up another bite of the pasta, until her fork hits nothing and she looks down, realizing her plate is empty.

Callie must be as surprised as I am, because she looks at her sister with wide eyes.

Athena looks to me, some of that copper hair falling forward into her face, and I brace myself, waiting for the quivering of her lip, the moment everything dissolves into hysterics. Maybe her hunger strike has been intentional, and maybe she’s just accidentally broken it. Maybe she’s about to fall into a million small pieces.

But, again, she doesn’t.

Instead, she picks up the plate, smiles at me, and says, “Can I have more?”