Page 68 of Rock Bottom Girl

“Look, just come to practice tomorrow. 3:30 right here. See what you think. We’re enthusiastically not good. But you might have fun.”

“I don’t like mean girls,” she warned me.

I mentally worked out a plan to have Lisabeth Hooper kidnapped.

“Good thing your BFF the coach has the power to make mean girls run until they throw up.”

“Hmm.”

“Think about it,” I told her. “3:30 tomorrow. Free candy.”

She nodded and bounced the ball on the grass. “Libby, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, Libby. I’m Coach Cicero. You’ll probably see me lurking around the gym, too.”

“Not creepy at all,” she said, that sort-of smile still hovering.

I decided to leave before I got down on my knees and begged, terrifying her into cyber school or something.

“See you around.” I gave her a wave and with great reluctance jogged back to the road. I had fifteen more minutes to go on this torture run, and I was going to spend it praying that Libby would show up tomorrow.

31

Marley

“What’s this?” Dad asked that night, his already high-pitched voice cracking in eager anticipation as he lifted the lid on the slow cooker.

“Pork roast,” I told him, checking the broccoli roasting in the oven.

My tiptoe onto the scale this morning revealed a mind-boggling, four-pound weight loss. My first not credited to the stomach flu or bad hangover in years. Not since I did that low-carb, lettuce and carrot diet for my co-worker’s destination wedding five years ago had I seen a purposeful drop like this.

Who knew chasing after a shirtless bad boy hunk in the predawn hours could be such great exercise?Oh, right. Literally everyone.

I was feeling…gosh, what was that warm, bright feeling in my chest? Indigestion? No. It was more glowy, less burny. Was thathope? It had been so long since I’d felt it, I didn’t even recognize it. I’d lived the last decade or so in constant fear of losing jobs, health insurance, the security of a relationship. I’d forgotten what it felt like to feel hopeful about the future.

Dad poked his head in the pantry and pulled out a bottle of wine. He waggled it at me. “You look like you’re in a good mood,” he squawked. “Should we celebrate?”

“Why not?” I said, pulling down two dusty wineglasses from the cabinet. My parents’ kitchen had been updated once. In the early eighties when Zinnia and I were rambunctious toddlers. The backsplash was a yellow and orange tile mosaic that absolutely did not match the brown Formica countertops. But as displeasing to the eyes as it was, it was the place I felt most at home.

Dad pulled the cork out with an enthusiastic pop and poured to the rim. I laughed and sipped without picking the glass up so as not to spill it.

“Oh, hello.” Byron the guest poked his head into the kitchen. He was close to seven feet tall and very, very pale. His hair was the color and texture of straw. It stuck out at odd angles, at least from what I could see without breaking my neck. His glasses were red, and his pants were three inches too short.

“Hey there, Byron! How’s your stay?” my dad squeaked.

I couldn’t imagine this scarecrow of a man was very comfortable in Zinnia’s double bed. His legs probably hung off the mattress up to the knee.

“It’s quite lovely. Thank you.” He stared pointedly at the slow cooker. We all did.

“Would you like to join us for dinner?” I offered.

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly intrude,” he said, now eyeing the bottle of wine. I recognized that look. Hope.

“It’s no problem,” I told him.

* * *

My parents shoveledthe pork roast and vegetables into their faces as if their last meal had been Styrofoam six days ago. Apparently none of their retirement hobbies had translated into any skills in the kitchen.