Page 136 of Like a Power Play
Something warm melts in my stomach, a feeling I don’t think I’ve fully felt since March. I want to correct my mom. To say that Cleo and I are just roommates, nothing more. But I don’t think that’s true anymore.
Actually, I don’t think it was ever true. No matter how hard I’ve tried.
My dad leans forward, handing her a tissue.
“Thanks,” she manages, dabbing at her eyes.
My mom and I make eye contact as I reach into the pile and hand another gift to Cleo.
“Another one?” she asks, her voice already cracking.
“This one’s from me,” I tell her. My dad shoots my mom a quick warning look as Cleo crumbles all over again. Her fingers tremble as she works the ribbon loose, tears trailing down her rosy cheeks.
She pulls out a thick notebook and stares at it, confused. I can see the polite smile forming. The “Oh wow, thanks, I’ll never use this” kind. I grin.
“Open it,” I say.
She flips it open, and her hand flies to her mouth, the notebook dropping into her lap. Without another beat, she launches herself at me and squeezes until I hear my bones crack.
“What is it?” my mom asks, raising a brow.
Cleo pulls back, wiping her face with the tissue, which is now just a soggy, flaking mess. My dad hands her another. “It’s a D&D planner,” she explains, holding it up proudly. “It’s a game I play.”
I smile. “Do you like it?”
She nods quickly, eyes still glossy. “I love it. Does this mean you’ll play with me now?”
“I’ll consider it.”
I push myself to my feet, doing my best to mask the pinch in my joints. It’s been constant lately. So bad that I nearly pretended to have a fever so that I didn’t have to get out of bed. But Cleo deserved to have a real Christmas. My parents too. “I’m gonna grab some apple cider. You guys want some?”
Everyone nods, a chorus of yeses.
“I’ll come help you,” my mom says, rising from the couch.
sThe moment we step into the kitchen, her eyes catch mine, glinting with amusement.
“Does she cry like that a lot?” she asks in a hushed tone. I pause, thinking about it.
“That’s actually the first time I’ve ever seen her cry,” I say, sounding just as surprised as my mom looks. “I don’t think her family sent her anything.”
Something sparks in my mom’s eyes, and her brows furrow. “Do you have her mom’s number?” she asks, crossing her arms. “I’d like to exchange some words.”
I laugh. “Unfortunately not.”
As I reach up into the cabinet, looping my fingers around a collection of mug handles, a fire spreads from my wrist, up my arm. It shakes as I bring the mugs down, setting them on the counter with a light clatter. In my periphery, I can see my mom staring at me, brow cocked, eyes judging. So instead of looking at her, I dig through a drawer for a ladle.
“When was the last time you saw Dr. Oswell?” she asks. The tone in her voice tells me that she already knows the answer. I hitch a shoulder, still avoiding her gaze as I move over to the crock pot of cider. She lifts the lid off for me, streams of cinnamon apple steam flowing out of it.
“I don’t know, like two months?” I say, lowering the ladle into the pot. I do it slowly, watching the warm amber liquid pool into the scoop. I can’t help but think of Peyton as I do it. Of those apple-cider eyes.
“So those meds seem to be working then,” my mom continues. She says it like a statement, but I can feel the question that lies beneath.
“Umh…” I falter.
Here’s the thing: It’s hard to know if the meds are working when you’ve been pushing yourself harder than before you started taking them. There’s no baseline anymore, no steady control to measure against. It’s like trying to judge an entire team when the lineup changes every game.
Mom steps closer, her voice growing firm. “Darcy,” she says, and I curse myself for looking at her.
