Page 141 of Changing the Playbook
“I said the oil paint was for emotional support,” Declan deadpans. “She didn’t find that as funny as I did.”
They tumble into the living room in a chaos of scarves and scattered conversation about Paris, about art, about the way six months can feel like six minutes and six years simultaneously. Andy glows with the kind of happiness that comes from loving someone across an ocean and having it work anyway.
I watch them and feel that peculiar ache that’s equal parts joy and terror.
Mike materializes at my elbow, talking low enough that only I can hear. “Your worry face is showing.”
“I don’t have a worry face,” I lie, badly.
His thumb finds the inside of my wrist, tracing circles that make thinking unnecessarily difficult. “June’s not for months. And even then?—“
“I know.” And I do know. We’ve dissected this topic from every possible angle—the draft, the cities that might claim him,the logistics of love across distances—but watching Andy and Declan navigate their separation with such grace makes June feel immediate, inevitable.
The doorbell saves me again—apparently, it’s my night for convenient interruptions.
“Ho ho ho!” Maine fills the doorway, clutching a bottle of wine that definitely came from the gas station and a package wrapped in what appears to be a newspaper comics section. “Where’s my favorite coach who definitely won’t make me do extra sprints for showing up buzzed?”
“You’re not late,” I tell him, stepping aside. “And you know my dad stopped caring about your language the day you scored that hat trick against BU.”
“Still.” Maine shrugs out of his coat, and I catch the duct tape holding the zipper together at the bottom, the way the lining’s started to separate at the shoulder seam. “Better to arrive bearing gifts. Even terrible ones. This wine might technically be classified as a biohazard.”
He bounds into the living room with his signature golden retriever energy, but there’s something tight around his eyes, a brightness that’s turned up half a notch too high. Mike mentioned the roommate situation last week—rent that’s suddenly doubled, the lack of cash...
“Maine!” My mom’s voice carries from the kitchen. “Thank God. I need someone with actual artistic vision to help with Santa icing. Hazel’s turned all the red Santa hats into something from a horror movie.”
“They’re not horror movie Santas!” Hazel protests. “They’re just… tired Santas.”
“Exhausted from late-stage capitalism,” Maine agrees solemnly, already heading for the kitchen. “I deeply respect the artistic commentary. Let me show you how to make the blood spatter more realistic.”
“MAINE.”
“I meant frosting! Red frosting spatter!”
The house fills with the kind of comfortable chaos that comes from too many people in too small a space, all of them exactly where they want to be. I find myself in the kitchen at some point, transferring cookies to cooling racks while my mom directs traffic from her perch on the stool at the island.
She hasn’t been standing much lately. The observation hits cold and sharp.
The relapse last month was minor, her neurologist assured us with the kind of practiced calm that made me want to shake him. Just some medication adjustments, extra rest, she’d be fine.
And she is fine, technically.
But I catalog the way she grips the counter when she thinks no one’s looking, the way she’s delegating tasks she would have done herself six months ago, the way her hands stay cold now. I can feel it even from here, that persistent chill no amount of heating can touch.
I walk over to her. “Mom…”
“I’m OK,” she says simply. “I promise.”
“Mom—“
“I know you’re worried and you’re going to tell me to take it easy, but I don’t want to. Because do you know what I see when I look around this kitchen?” She doesn’t wait for my answer or my worry. “I see my family, bigger and louder and more chaotic than it was last Christmas.”
I sigh. “I know, but?—“
She doesn’t let me finish. “I see Hazel learning how to pipe murder scenes onto gingerbread from a hockey player who can’t afford to fly home. I see your father actually laughing at your boyfriend’s terrible jokes. I see you, my darling girl,finally letting someone else hold some of the weight you’ve been carrying alone.”
My throat closes up. “Mom, please?—“
“That’s worth every bad day, Sophie.” Her cold fingers find mine, squeezing with more strength than I expected. “Every single one.”
