Page 71 of Cut Off
“Definitively.”
He skips ahead of us up the path, hood back up, talking to himself in a low voice about what to test next. I let the distance grow because Sydney is matching my stride too perfectly, meaning she’s about to ambush me.
“How’s Maddie,” she asks, casual.
“As predicted, watching The Notebook in my parents’ basement on a loop. She says it’s the only place she can hear herself think, which is rich coming from a woman who eats Doritos in bed.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
She lets a beat go. Then, even more casual: “So, Jonah and Eli. You guys are kind of a family now, huh?”
“Sydney.”
“I’m just saying.”
“Don’t.”
“I have eyes, Zoe.”
“Nope. We’re not doing this.”
“Doing what?” She blinks at me with the faux-innocence of a woman who’s been my best friend for clearly too long. “I’m just observing.”
I check to make sure Blastman’s still out of earshot, finding him engaged in what looks like a one-sided ghost negotiation with a stump.
“Do you want a play-by-play of the things your brother’s done to me?” I say, low.
She gasps. “Oh, shit. Not really.”
“Okay, then. It’s messy and complicated, and scorching hot. And I’m going to Seattle.”
She gives me a “duh” look. “I was leaving when Brooks was doing those things to me too. And you know how that ended up.”
“It’s different,” I say, with no real reason to give why it’s different.
“It’s really not.” She laughs and bumps her shoulder into mine the way she has since we were at W2Beaver together, then we walk in companionable silence for the last bit of path that opens out onto Maisie Kingston’s back lawn.
Of course Maisie’s on the porch. She’s been on that porch for approximately fifty years, gray hair pinned, purple track suit, a tray on the wicker table with a teapot, four cups, a tall glass of lemonade with actual mint in it, and a plate of cookies I know she didn’t bake but will absolutely take credit for.
She stands when she sees us. Eli stops at the bottom of the steps and pauses, where he reads a new adult and decides what version of himself to be.
“You must be Eli.” Maisie’s voice brooks no nonsense.
“I’m Blastman today, ma’am.”
“Blastman. Even better.” She doesn’t blink. “I’m Maisie. Now. I’ve been told you play chess.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“If you can play cards the way you play chess, you and I are going to be very good friends. Come up here, lemonade’s for you.”
He climbs the steps with the careful manners of a kid who’s decided this woman is interesting. “I can hold my own,” he says.
“Can you?”
“I used to beat my mom all the time, and I beat Zoe in twelve moves last week.”
