You and Everything After

I still haven’t told my parents about the soccer tryouts. I’m not officially signed up. I haven’t even spoken to Paige about it. I’m not ready to hear all of the reasons it’s a bad idea—all valid points, but I don’t want to penetrate my daydream just yet. There are a few weeks left before I have to face the facts, before I have to fight those who won’t want me to do this. So for now, I’m just going to enjoy the possibility. That is, unless the damned MS decides otherwise.

I’ve been flare-up-free for several months—since the oral meds, really. But I’m playing with fire—all of this running and lifting that I’ve been doing. Exercise is good. In fact, it’s something my doctors want me to do more of. But this kind of exercise—it sort of crosses the boundaries. The tingling this morning—that was hard to ignore. But it went away, and I try to focus on that.

It went away.

“This is your fault that I’m in this situation,” Rowe says, spinning in front of me in another outfit option from her closet. Nate finally asked her to join us at the game tonight. I’m glad, because I didn’t want to meet Ty’s parents alone. I’m glad to have an ally.

“Stop giving me shit, and get in there and try another dress on,” I say, spinning her around and pointing her back to the closet. Rowe and I are so much alike. As much as I have confidence on the surface, I’m still a tangled mess of self-doubt on the inside. I think maybe I’ve just gotten farther along in the process of knowing my worth than she has.

“This one looks ridiculous,” she says, coming out in another dress—this one short, falling above the knee. There’s nothing wrong with the dress, but Rowe…she just looks uncomfortable in her own skin, and I am the last person on earth who knows how to fix that. I can barely keep my own fire lit, let alone light someone else’s.

“Something’s not right. Why don’t you just wear jeans and a shirt, like you always do?” Rowe shoots me a pained look, and I know immediately that was the wrong thing to say. Honestly, I just meant that she looks great every day, but I get the sense that tonight—going to the game with the boys and meeting parents—is as important to her as it is to me. And it’s one of those occasions that call for something better than a T-shirt and jeans, something better than looking nice.

“I’m not good at this,” she says, her entire posture simply defeated. Shit…I think I did that.

“What do you mean? Paige would kill to be the one to get Nate’s attention,” I say, trying to boost her confidence with a last-ditch effort. My shoulders cringe the second I hear my sister walk in. I know she picked up on her name. She’d never miss a mention.

Cue the Paige Owens show…

“Paige would kill for what? For you two chickadees to get your asses off my bed?” And there it is, the subtle shift that is about to make Rowe’s discomfort all about Paige.

Rowe is looking at me with a face full of panic. I’ve got this one handled though. I lie back and spread my arms on Paige’s bed, wrinkling her bedspread just enough that I know it’s going to irritate her. “Your bed is always so much more comfortable than mine,” I say, rolling to the side and smelling her blankets. They actually are nicer than mine. “And your sheets are softer. What the hell?”

“Mom and Dad like me better,” Paige says, pushing me out of her way so she can straighten the wrinkles I made. Rowe doesn’t know this, but I took a bullet for her there. It’s all about the art of distraction with Paige.

My sister is stationed at the small vanity mirror and counter in our closet, working on her makeup. She’s good at makeup. And clothes. And confidence. Oh god, we need her.

“What?” she asks, catching me staring at her in the reflection.

“Rowe, I’m afraid we’re going to need her help,” I say, looking at my friend whose eyes are so wide, I think they may actually fall out of her head.

“Help with what?” Paige asks, only semi interested. What I’m about to tell her will get all of her attention though. I’m sorry Rowe; I’ll make this up to you.

“First, you have to promise me you’re not going to get pissed,” I say, taking my time to watch my sister consider my offer. Her movements are sharp and calculated. She has the ability to make the simplest act—even putting the lid back on a tube of gloss—look threatening.

“Pretty sure I can’t promise that. Just a hunch,” she says, her eyes squarely on mine now. She probably thinks I’m about to get her into some pile of trouble, because historically, that’s been the case. But no, I’m actually just going to break her heart. And I kinda hate that more.