Page 58 of With the Assist

If it might distract or complicate my life, then it was gone. And yet, I’m the one who came up with this whole fake-dating charade. I’m the one who kissed him back and harder last night. I told him about the scholarship scare when not even my closest friends knew some of those details. I’m the one complicating things.

I turn my phone on airplane mode, shoving it into my pocket as the plane races down the runway and lifts into the air. The truth is, what scares me most is not the kiss itself. It’s how easily it slid undermy skin. Meanwhile, Nathan went back to normal, chatting with friends. It’s obvious that he hadn’t felt it the way I had.

The rest of the flight is spent oscillating between staring out the window and the back of my eyelids. Every time my mind tries to drift into forbidden territory, I yank it somewhere else.

Bills. Schedules. Training plans.

By the time we land, my jaw aches from clenching it.

My dad is waiting at baggage claim with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. His posture is stiff in a way that has nothing to do with the cold. His arthritis has been bad lately. It’s obvious in the careful way he shifts his weight and how he favors one knee without realizing it.

“Hey, kiddo,” he says, smiling when he spots me.

I wrap him in a hug, mindful of his joints. He smells like coffee and the aftershave he’s worn my entire life.

“Happy early Thanksgiving,” I say.

“It’s the best kind,” he replies. “The kind where you surprise me.”

My little sister, Emma, barrels into me from the side a second later, nearly knocking my bag from my shoulder.

“You said you weren’t coming home.” She squeezes me tightly, eyes bright with excitement. “I raced home just for this.”

“I’m honored.” I wrap my arms around her, laughing despite myself. “It must be such a sacrifice.”

She rolls her eyes, and I keep my arm around her as we start to head for the car. We’re seven years apart in age. She’s eighteen in her freshman year of college, but I still feel protective of her anyway.

It’s like no matter how much time goes by, she is still the seven-year-old who didn’t understand when the police showed up at midnight to tell us that our mother had been killed in a hit and run. I was fourteen. I’d held Emma for hours, unable to explain what had happened and unable to offer consolation I didn’t have myself. I’d wondered in private what my lack of tears said about me. I still do.

The funeral had been a blur of red-rimmed, tear-filled eyes. My mascara stayed perfect, as if appearances could hold everythingtogether. After, Dad buried himself in work, always providing through the chaos. But it fell to me to fill the gaps. I still do.

They need me, and I refuse to let them down. Coming home is the reminder I need to remember why I stay focused.

The house is smaller than I remember it, or maybe I’m numb to moving through spaces that don’t belong to me. It’s been a while since I’ve come home. It hurts to be here. I’ve tried to talk them into moving to Boston, but until recently, my dad’s work has kept him here.

The couch still sags in the middle. The kitchen light still flickers if you don’t jiggle the switch just right. There’s a stack of unopened mail on the counter. It’s all silent reminders of things I need to fix and responsibilities one kiss cannot make me forget.

For dinner, we have pasta with sauce from a jar and garlic bread that’s slightly overdone. It’s our version of home cooking. Emma tells us about her classes, roommate drama, and a professor who has it out for her. Dad listens, nodding along, asking questions when he can. I do too, though it feels like I’m looking through a window instead of sitting at the table with them.

I watch Dad’s hands as he eats. He pauses between bites, fingers curling stiffly around his fork. Whatever the doctors are doing is not enough to stop the pain he’s in. Not for the first time, I wish I could do something other than help financially.

After dinner, he gathers the mail.

“We can look at this later,” he says, shoving it out of the way.

“We can look at it now.” I pull it back in front of me.

He hesitates, then nods.

The bills are worse than I expected. Specialist visits. Imaging. Physical therapy that insurance barely touches. A tuition bill is folded twice and shoved into an envelope as if hiding it in there will make it go away.

I do the math in my head automatically.

“Another one from the hospital,” Dad mutters, rubbing at his knuckles. He tries to flex them, but they crack painfully. “They keep sending statements. I can’t keep up.”

My chest tightens, guilt twisting in a knot. “Dad, it’s okay. I’ll handle it. I have plenty for this and can get them all paid this weekend.”

It’s true. I do have enough for this, but it’s the future I’m worried about. If these bills are any indication, it could be just the start.