Page 112 of The Revenge Game
Have a lovely Christmas.
Looking forward to seeing you soon.
Love,
Mom
Inside, nestled between tissue paper, is a Christmas sweater, which is my mom’s standard holiday gift.
But underneath it is a large envelope and my old yearbook.
Photos spill from the envelope as I open it, each one striking a different chord in my memory. There I am at ten, surrounded by my mom’s attempt at Christmas decorations in our tiny apartment. It was the year before she met Bobby Ray.
I stare at my face. I have a shy, almost embarrassed smile, but I look happy.
Another photo slides free: thirteen-year-old me at my first football practice, shoulder pads making me look like an overdressed turtle, still innocent enough to think being good at football would make Bobby Ray proud.
The graduation photo hits me the hardest. Every hair perfectly placed, smile calibrated to exactly the right wattage—the picture-perfect all-American quarterback. But now I can see what I couldn’t then: the tension around my eyes, the way my hands are clenched at my sides, how much energy it took to maintain that illusion.
I suddenly realize Drew has stiffened next to me. When I glance over, his gaze is fixed on the scattered photos with an intensity that seems out of proportion to my awkward teenage fashion choices.
“You okay?”
He blinks rapidly. “Yeah, just…processing Teenage Justin in all his glory.”
But something’s off about his tone. Something doesn’t quite match his usual teasing.
“I asked my mom to send me some photos and my yearbook because I have to put together a speech for my class reunion. I was class president.” I let out a self-conscious laugh.
Drew freezes. “Your class reunion?”
“Yeah. I’m going home in early January for a few days. The app will definitely come in handy there too.” I blow out a breath. “I still have no idea what I’m going to talk about in my speech though. It feels like having to play a role I quit years ago.”
“You’re allowed to have changed since high school,” Drew says. He studies me with those intent brown eyes.
My stomach feels queasy. When Drew told me the other night how he’d been bullied in high school, it brought some of my suppressed memories from high school closer to the surface. I know my anger at someone treating Drew like that is hypocritical. Because I’d done exactly the same thing to one of my classmates as Drew’s bully had done to him.
“I know I’ve changed since high school. I really don’t like the person I was in high school. But I spent so long pretending, being what everyone expected me to be—the captain of the football team. I don’t know if I have the…the…courage to show them the real me.”
Drew bites his lip. “The real you is kind of awesome,” he says quietly.
Warmth floods my chest. Something inside me uncoils at his words. Leave it to Drew to cut straight through my spiral of self-doubt with such casual conviction.
“Just ‘kind of?’” I say.
He raises an eyebrow. “Sorry, I apologize for the hedge. Would ‘thoroughly, overwhelmingly, and persistently awesome’ better suit your ego?”
“Definitely.”
When I meet his eyes, the affection there catches me off guard.
Trying to hide my emotions, I reach for the next photo spilling out of the envelope.
My breath hitches when I see it.
It’s me at age ten, posing with my snow globe collection. I’m gap-toothed and gangly, proudly displaying my collection on shelves I helped Mom put up. My Houston Texans T-shirt is two sizes too big—another thrift store find—and my smile shows the kind of unguarded happiness that exists before anyone tells you there’s a wrong way to be happy.
“That was my snow globe collection.” I swallow. “Before Bobby Ray smashed them all.”
