Page 53 of Goalie Lessons

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 youdidget 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?”

Astrid

Afterwaitingtenminutesoutside Grayson’s place, I finally get a text back from him.

Grayson:Pick-up line is backed up. Code to the door is 1234. You can head on in.

I chew on my lip, looking past my dash and to the door of Grayson’s house. The last time I was here, Callie had locked herself in the bathroom, and Grayson and I had agreed to our little sex scheme. Now, I sit in my car in the driveway, stomach turning with nervousness.

Today is my firstnot-counseling meeting with Callie. A meeting with a trusted adult. At the time, I’d felt fine agreeing to it, but now I shift in my seat, discomfort fanning out through me at the idea that I might not be enough for this girl.

Shoving that feeling down, I remind myself that my only goal is to loosen her up, get her to agree to seeing arealcounselor. I’m just going to be a second ear for her to talk to. An older friend.

I grimace. None of the descriptions I find to explain this situation to myself are helping.

Still, I turn off the car, force myself out the door. Rather than a slow descent into cooler temperatures, it’s like Wisconsin hit a certain date and decided not to look back. While last week was in the seventies, this one is all highs in the fifties, a brisk, cool tone to the air that has officially ushered in fall.

As I walk up to the house, I text Grayson.

Astrid:Seriously? You have to change that code, Grayson.

Grayson:What, now that you know it?

Astrid:If your code is 1234, everyone knows it, you dork.

I punch in the offensively stupid code, wonder why his security company even allowed him to pick that, and push into the foyer. It’s spotlessly clean, just like the night I was here before, but it smellsfantastic.

When I walk into the kitchen, I identify the source of the smell—two Milwaukee Frost crockpots on the counter, each of them with the lids on tight, something simmering inside. One holds what looks like chili, while the other has something white, little green specks floating at the top.

Heart fluttering for some unknown reason—maybe the ridiculously weak security measures—I move through the kitchen, taking everything in.

There’s a drawn unicorn on the fridge, all heavy-handed crayon, no doubt a product of Athena. It does something strange to my chest, the idea of her handing it to Grayson, Grayson taking it and attaching it to the fridge with a magnet from the local electric supplier.

It’s so domestic, such a pure window into what his life looks like right now, that it makes my skin flush with something unidentified. Prickly and warm at once. Almost like jealousy, I think, but it can’t be, so I move on, trying to leave the feeling behind.

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