Page 81 of Changing the Playbook
As we head toward Sophie’s voice, Hazel bounds ahead, pausing to announce more nature facts while I follow, processing everything I’ve learned about the Pearson sisters in fifteen minutes.
twenty-three
SOPHIE
The quiet scrapeof my sneakers against dirt stops me cold. Through the canopy of fall-tinged leaves, I spot Mike and Hazel up ahead, Mike crouched beside her as she examines something on the ground. And, while it’s true Ihadgone up ahead to find a spot, I was also curious to see how they were interacting.
“—aren’t even real ants,” Hazel declares with authority, her voice drifting on the breeze. “They’re actually wasps pretending to be ants. Isn’t that weird?”
“Who got you the bug book?” Mike’s voice carries that particular warmth he reserves for kids and dogs.
“Sophie.” The softness in how she says my name makes my chest ache. “She got me three different bug books last Christmas, right after Mom got sick.”
“That was nice of her.”
“Yeah.” There’s a pause, the sound of a stick dragging through dirt. “I think she thought books would make me stop being sad.”
“Were you sad?”
“Sometimes. But not like Sophie. She’s sad and scared all the time, even when she pretends she’s fine.”
The words hit me square in the solar plexus. Eight years old and she’s already cataloged my every tell, filed away my failed attempts at being the stable one. The fact that she’s sharing this psychological profile with Mike—God, Mike of all people—sends heat crawling up my neck.
But beneath the mortification, there’s a wisdom in her matter-of-fact assessment that makes my eyes burn and tears threaten. When exactly did my baby sister become the family’s emotional anchor while I turned into our resident doom-forecaster?
“Sophie’s not a scaredy-cat, though.”
Mike’s voice—suddenly louder—cuts through my spiral.
I freeze, not even breathing.
“She’s actually one of the bravest people I know.”
The certainty in his tone, the way he says it without a trace of doubt—something hot and grateful blooms behind my ribs. My cheeks burn for an entirely different reason now, but I decide I’m done with spying and I’m done with them talking about me.
“HAZEL!” My voice cracks through the trees before I can think better of it. “MIKE! I found the perfect spot!”
I spin and hurry back to the clearing, face still flaming. But beneath the embarrassment, that warm bloom in my chest keeps expanding. Mike defended me. Called me brave when he had every opportunity to agree that yes, Sophie Pearson is an anxious disaster who should probably invest in therapy.
By the time they reach the clearing, I’ve managed to spread out the blanket and arrange myself in what I hope looks like casual relaxation mixed with domestic goddess rather than “I just eavesdropped on your conversation and now I’m having feelings.”
Hazel bounds in first, already mid-monologue about the ant colony. “—must have been thousands and thousands and did you know some ants are farmers?”
“I don’t think they have tractors,” I say, grateful for the distraction. “Lunch first, then we can discuss ant agriculture.”
She plops down and immediately attacks the cooler. “What kind of sandwiches are there?”
“The best kind,” Mike says, settling onto the blanket. The heat of him radiates through the space between us, close enough that the slightest shift would bring our thighs together. “PB&J, turkey and cheese, and chicken salad that’s my secret recipe…”
“Wait, are these homemade?” My mouth falls open. “Andyouhave a secret recipe for something?”
His grin should come with a warning label. “Well, technically the chicken salad is my friend Linc’s recipe with modifications.”
“Linc? NHL Linc?”
He nods. “He’s a great cookandhe has a mean slap-shot.”
“What modifications?” Hazel asks suspiciously.
