Chapter 7 Three Years Before

3 years before Penny

The sun’s still high when we cut across town to the park. Someone — I think it’s Nate — has a basketball wedged under his arm, and the second we hit the cracked concrete court, he tosses it up like he’s in the NBA. It clangs off the rim so hard the ball bounces halfway across the grass.

“Smooth,” Ryan says, jogging after it.

“Warm-up shot,” Nate yells back, grinning.

We mess around for a while, no real game. Just HORSE, one-on-one challenges, trick shots we can’t actually land. Ryan keeps trying to dunk even though he’s five-eight and can barely reach the net. Caleb actually sinks a couple of threes in a row, which makes him strut around like he’s suddenly on varsity.

We’re all laughing, shoving, sweating under the late afternoon sun.

When we finally collapse on the grass, chests heaving, the talk turns back to career day.

“Okay,” Ryan says between gulps of water, “best booth of the day? I’m voting the engineering guys. They gave me a stress ball.”

“You don’t need a stress ball,” Nate says. “You need therapy.”

Ryan flips him off, still grinning.

“I liked the psychology booth,” Caleb says. “That woman actually seemed like she cared.”

“Yeah, until Ryan started asking if she could hypnotize him into passing math.”

“It was a valid question!” Ryan insists.

Nate laughs so hard he nearly chokes. “What about that dance booth though? Nobody even looked at it.”

“Oh, the one with the ballerina poster?” Caleb asks. “Yeah. Empty the whole time.”

“Hey,” Nate says, pointing with the ball. “Don’t sleep on dancers. Do you know how strong you have to be for ballet? Props to those girls. Seriously.”

We all nod, no jokes. Just agreement.

And that’s why I like these guys.

They’re not nerds, not jocks, not anything special on paper. Just average dudes who skate, play ball, crack jokes. But they’re kind. They actually think about stuff. Respect people.

When I first started high school, I thought football was the way to go. I made the team, played a few games, even liked the rush of it. But the locker room? The constant posturing, the comments, the need to one-up each other just to prove you were a man? I hated it. It felt hollow.

Then life went sideways two years ago, and I quit the team without looking back. I found these guys instead. I found books. And between the two, I’ve had something solid to hold on to.

Ryan shoots the ball up from where he’s sitting. It bounces off the rim, rolls back, and hits him in the chest.

“See?” he says, deadpan. “Natural talent.”

We all groan, laughing, and I think maybe this — this moment right here — is enough.

The guys wander over to the water fountain by the courts, leaving me sprawled on the grass with the basketball under my arm. I pull out my phone and scroll to Jemma’s number. My thumbs hover for a second before I start typing.

So, would you wanna go see a movie sometime?

Her reply comes quick. You don’t even know me.

No, I type back, but I’d like to.

The dots flash, vanish, then return. Smooth answer.

I grin, leaning back on the grass. Can’t help it. Comes with the hero complex.

Hero complex?

Yeah. You dropped your pen. I saved your life. We’ve been through a lot together already.

This time she sends a laughing emoji. You’re ridiculous.

Maybe, I type, but I promise I’m good company. What do you say?

Another pause. Then: Alright. A movie sounds fun.

I bite back a smile, slipping the phone back into my pocket just as Ryan and Caleb jog back, arguing over who’s the better shot. Nate tosses me a bottle of water.

“Why do you look like that?” Ryan asks suspiciously.

“Like what?” I ask, catching the bottle.

“Like you just won something.”

I shrug, hiding the grin. “Maybe I did.”

By the time I get home, the house is quiet. That’s the best kind of quiet — not the heavy silence after a fight, but the kind that means no one’s here yet.

I drop my backpack on the floor by the stairs, toe my shoes off, and head straight for the kitchen. My stomach’s been growling since the park.

The fridge hums as I pull it open. Leftover pasta from last night sits on the middle shelf. I dump it into a pan, let it heat while I fill a glass of water. The smell of garlic fills the room as I stir, and for a few minutes, it feels almost normal.

I eat at the counter, scrolling through my phone, rereading Jemma’s texts from earlier like an idiot who can’t stop grinning. By the time the plate’s clean, headlights sweep across the front window.

Mom’s car.

The door opens and shuts, her heels clicking softly against the hardwood. She walks in a minute later, still in her work clothes, eyes shadowed with tiredness. But when she sees me, she smiles.

“Hey, honey,” she says, dropping her bag on the counter. “You’re home early.”

“Yeah,” I say, rinsing my dish. “We got out after career day.”

She sighs, slips off her shoes. “God, I hated career day when I was your age.” She laughs quietly, then studies me. “How was it? Anything catch your eye?”

I shrug, drying my hands on a towel. “Not really. Took some pamphlets.”

“That’s good,” she says. “That’s something.”

She leans against the counter, rubbing her temples. For a second, the words sit right on my tongue: Can you and Dad stop fighting? Can we work on it? Can we just… be okay again?

But I swallow them down.

I’ve said all of it before. Nothing ever changed. Nothing stuck.

So instead I just nod, force a small smile, and say, “You want me to make you a plate?”

Her eyes soften. “That’d be nice, sweetheart. Thank you.”

And I do. Quiet fills the space between us again, and I let it.