FREE STORY WITH EXCLUSIVE CONTENT. This is *not* a Paid Story.
Eighteen-year-old hockey prodigy Elliot Wexler has three goals for senior year. One: somehow graduate with a 3.5 GPA. Two: hide his bipolar disorder from his peers. And three: make it in...
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MY SIDES ARE STILL in agony from where Bev kicked me, but what hurts more is the open gash in my heart from losing that violin. In a weird way, it felt like my mother bought it, like it was a gift from her to me. I know that's stupid. She never even gave me that kind of stuff when she was around, but maybe I'm not as impervious to childish dreams as I thought.
I admit, I feel better now though. When Elliot hugged me, I had never felt so safe and secure. Now warmth radiates from the plates of food lining the dinner table: stuffed turkey, scalloped potatoes, and Yorkshire puddings. And once again, I'm fuzzy inside. It's weird, but... this is nice.
"This gravy recipe is one of my highest rated," Elizabeth says. "So I hope you all enjoy it."
"Everything smells great, Mom," Elliot says.
Charlotte and her friend, Maddy, keep snickering at me. Then there's Adam; when he talks to me, I can't help but avoid eye-contact, paranoid about the fact that he's a cop. It's easier to focus on Ollie's two-year-old kid, Ana. Apparently he had her when he was eighteen. She blinks at me like I'm the most interesting thing in the world as Elliot bounces her on his lap and eats over her head, careful not to drop anything on her.
To say the food's delicious is an understatement. Elliot's mom is a professional chef, and even has her own cooking show called Elizabeth on a local station. I feel like I'm in a five-star restaurant; this food is even better than the pizza we had last time. So I have seconds, then thirds, but when not even Elliot has fourths, I call it quits. I'm already stuffed as Elizabeth brings out dessert, and everyone makes room on the table for trays of cookies shaped like snowmen and Santa Claus. On one plate, a pile of white balls sit in a perfect mound. Curious, I reach for those.
"Oh, El made those ones," Elizabeth says.
Elliot pretends he doesn't hear and feeds the toddler a spoonful of mashed potatoes, but his face reddens.
"What are they?" I ask.
Charlotte reaches over the table and snipes one. "Snowball cookies!"
Snowball cookies. The image of Elliot rolling them into balls and dusting them with coconut makes my heart swell.
Beside me, Ollie crams a huge piece of turkey in his mouth. "Cuba's gonna be so sick."
"Wait, you guys are going on vacation?" I ask.
"They all are," Elliot says. "I'm not."
Our eyes lock, and there's that weird tingling feeling again.
"Our flight is first thing in the morning," Elizabeth says. "Since El's not coming—he has too much going on with hockey—we're bringing Maddy along."
"I'm very grateful, Mrs. Wexler," Maddy says.
Everyone keeps talking, but all I can think is that Elliot's going to be here. Alone. He takes out his phone, and moments later, mine vibrates. I subtly check it beneath the table.
