Our Playbooks

Chapter 7

Cammy

I check the washer — the clothes aren’t ready to switch yet. I leave the basket there, grab the trash bag, and work my way through the living room, dining room, and bathroom on the main floor. The spare room is next — the one they’re turning into the nursery. They didn’t want to know the gender, so we won’t find out until the baby arrives. It’ll be my mom’s seventh kid, but her and Enzo’s first child together. Enzo is my mom’s husband, and he’s been in our lives long enough that it no longer feels strange. The nursery only needs dusting, so I straighten a few things and move on. Their bedroom is easy, too — my mom always cleans up after both of them, and the only thing left out is the clothes she changed into before leaving for the hospital. She had a bag packed and ready for weeks, so I straighten the room, scoop up the clothes, and carry the basket to the laundry room.

I head to the basement, where blankets and pillows are strewn across every surface. I fold the blankets and straighten the pillows before moving to the room we keep set up for Ellie. When her parents left after her grandfather passed away, they wanted her to stay at my place or Meg’s — they didn’t want her alone in that house. As time went by, though, they gave her more leeway, and unless it’s been a really bad day, she stays at her own house now. I dust Ellie’s room and fluff the pillows, then I’m done — I already made my bed and cleaned my bathroom yesterday after my shower, and I never eat in my room, so there’s nothing to pick up. I also did all my laundry yesterday, knowing I’d be buried in everyone else’s this weekend. My mom gets winded doing almost anything right now, so I’ve been handling the upstairs while she takes care of the main floor.

The last thing I do is the dishes. With five people in this house, they pile up in half a day — the sink is already stacked. I check my phone first, but no one’s replied. I message again and wait. When I still hear nothing, I take Ellie’s advice and give her a second. I empty the dishwasher while I wait, and when the message finally reads over my headphones, I reply through them without stopping. I reload the dishwasher as fast as I can because I hate this chore more than any other — if I could leave them sitting there, I would. But I have OCD, and if everything isn’t done, I can’t stop. Every dish goes back exactly where it was before it was moved. Once I’ve finally finished, I switch the laundry, then — finally — let myself sink into the couch. My shoulders ache, and my head is pounding, but I don’t say anything. I never do. It’s what needs to be done, and when no one else is here to do it, that means it falls to me. I turn on One Tree Hill — eighth time through, I think — and let myself go still for a while, waiting until it’s time to switch the laundry or get ready for tonight. I’ll need a shower and the warmest clothes I own, because my mom keeps this house cold enough that bare arms aren’t an option.

When the clock hits 5:30 p.m., I drag myself off the couch and head downstairs. I grab a long-sleeve shirt, sweatpants, a fresh bra, and underwear, then step into the bathroom. I always run hot when I clean, and after a full day of it, I need the shower more than I want to admit. When I come back out, my brothers are already in their spots in the basement, settled in like they’ve been there for hours.

“Thanks for cleaning my room — sorry, I would’ve done it when I woke up,” Mateo says, already getting up to hug me.

“I know, no worries. Want to help me with the popcorn and drinks?” I ask. He always wants to — it’s his favorite part.

His eyes light up. “Yes,” he says, nodding so hard it’s almost comical.

I laugh at his excitement and head toward the little bar area — a popcorn maker, a microwave, a sink, and the movie-style soda machine Dad had installed, the one with nine drink options that still feels a little ridiculous and completely perfect.

My parents always loved going to the movies, but we weren’t rolling in money — we were comfortable, taken care of, just not the kind of family that could pile everyone into a theater without it being a whole production. At one point, there were six of us in this house: my sisters down here in the basement, me up on the second floor with Alexander and Diego. We all started in the room across from my parents until we were old enough to handle the stairs on our own, around three. I moved to the basement when my older sister Evelyn left for college, and I’ve never looked back — no shared bathroom with my brothers, no noise, no mess that isn’t mine. It’s better down here. But my point is, with a house this full, the movies weren’t always an option. So Dad made us our own.

My dad was a construction worker who loved building things almost as much as he loved us. He made the couch himself, custom, with a cupholder built into every single cushion, so no one ever had to fight over one. He put their tax return into a big TV and a full surround-sound setup. It took a few years to really come together because somewhere in the middle of it all, my mom found out she was pregnant with me, and suddenly Dad was building an entire second floor — four bedrooms, two bathrooms — because they refused to let any of us share a room if they could help it. A whole floor. For us. If he were still alive, he’d probably already be sketching out a third. And now that my mom and Enzo are expecting, maybe she’ll call up his old crew and let them finish what he started.

He also built the island and sourced the popcorn and soda machines from a theater renovation — had the soda bags delivered to the house every week, like it was the most normal thing in the world. After he died, Mom made sure to keep it all going with his life insurance. We were set for life on a lot of things, and I think that was the point. But I’m getting off track — I do that. I pour everything into the top of the popcorn machine: butter, coconut oil, popcorn salt. Mateo and I flip it on and stand there for a second, just listening to the kernels start to pop, the warm smell of butter and salt spreading through the basement. I cross to the soda machine while Mateo crouches down and pulls seven buckets from the cabinet underneath.

I glance over at him. “Why seven? There will only be five of us,” I say.

“Cameron and Beau are coming over — they texted me. Is that okay?” Cameron and Beau are Meg's twin brothers.

“Of course, Matty — I was just curious,” I say, swapping out five cups for seven.

The more, the merrier — that’s what my dad always said when more people showed up than expected. He loved having a full house, a full table, a full room. I fill Meg’s cup with Dr. Pepper, Ellie’s with Cherry Pepsi, and mine with Mtn Dew, then carry them over and set them in the left corner of the U-shaped couch. The boys drag the beanbag chairs into position on the floor and grab pillows from Ellie’s room. I pull four blankets from the pile I folded earlier, tuck one under each of their pillows, and grab three for us.

When the upstairs door opens, I already know it’s Ellie — I’d recognize the sound of her footsteps anywhere. I head up, and by the time I see her face, my arms are already open. I need this hug. After what happened in the driveway, I’ve been carrying it all afternoon.

“Permission to hug?” I ask, spreading my arms even wider.

She laughs — a real one, the kind that reaches her eyes — and pulls me in. “Permission granted.”

We barely have a second to pull apart before we’re smushed back together — Meg comes barreling in from the front door and crashes into Ellie’s back, arms wrapping around us both before either of us can react.

“Hi, Meg,” Ellie and I say at the same time.

“Hey, besties,” Meg squeals, her whole face lit up. “Ready for before-school movie night?”

“Yes — but fair warning, it’s going to be an action movie night. My brothers aren’t letting a single rom-com through,” I say, pulling a face.

“Yeah, I figured — that’s why I brought my brothers too. It’s my parents’ date night,” Meg says, as her brothers slip past us and head downstairs without a word.

Ellie lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a scoff and a laugh, her expression caught between amusement and something softer.

Meg’s face falls. “I’m sorry — we love our brothers, we really do, they’re amazing, but they’re also teenage boys who don’t shower nearly enough, so they’re kind of gross…” she says, her voice trailing off with a wince.

Meg is still going. I press my palm to my forehead, already opening my mouth to cut in, when Ellie beats me to it.

Ellie raises a hand, her voice quiet and steady. “It’s okay. I never thought you meant anything bad. We just had different experiences with our brothers — it’s okay to feel the way you do, I promise.”

I swallow the eye roll before it happens and smooth my expression into something that passes for a smile. Even now, I’m protecting Ellie from someone she shouldn't need protection from — old habit. “Come on,” I say, tilting my head toward the stairs. “Popcorn should be ready, and your drinks are already waiting.”

On the way downstairs, I notice Ellie’s hands — clenching and unclenching at her sides, slow and deliberate. I bite my tongue and don’t say anything. The basement is already dark, lit only by the glow of the screen, and for a second, the familiar pitch-black warmth of it catches me off guard in the best way — a flood of every movie night we’ve ever had down here. Ellie drops into the left corner of the couch and immediately pulls the blanket up over herself, tucking her hands underneath. She does that when she’s panicked, or when she’s thinking about Caleb, or when she’s just trying to hold her mask in place after a day that took too much out of her. Yesterday must still be sitting heavy on her. I wish she’d let me in — I wish I knew what it was so I could actually do something. Meg settles beside her, leaving a space between them, and I head to the bar to grab the popcorn buckets Mateo’s been filling.

“Thank you, Matty,” I say as I grab three buckets while Mateo grabs two and Diego takes the other two.

“You’re welcome, Cam,” Mateo replies.

I kiss the top of his head, carry the buckets over, hand them off, and settle in between Ellie and Meg.

Once I’m settled, Ellie turns her head slightly. “Did you tell your mom I’m here?”

My stomach drops a little — I completely forgot. My mom would say it’s fine regardless, but still. “Oh crap. No. I’ll do that now,” I say, already reaching for my phone.

I pull out my phone and send my mother a quick message.

“Thank you,” Ellie murmurs, sliding down a little into the cushion.

Me: Ellie is here.

Mom: It’s Enzo. I’ll let Ellie’s mom know.

Me: <3

We get through about three movies before everyone else is out — heads tipped back, blankets pulled up, the room full of slow, even breathing. It’s just Ellie and me awake in the dark. I hear her sharp intake of breath before I see what’s on her screen, and when I glance over, I catch it — a photo of a torso, badly bruised but undeniably built, a six-pack that would be impressive even without the context. Then she scrolls, and there’s his face: stormy gray eyes, heavy with exhaustion, wavy chestnut-brown hair matted to his forehead with sweat and dried blood. He looks like he’s been through something. I should look away, but I don’t.

Gray-eyed middle linebacker: I need help!

Gray-eyed middle linebacker: My brother told me where you live. I’m on my way!

Gray-eyed middle linebacker: I’m here! Open up!

Gray-eyes middle linebacker: Hello

Gray-eyed middle linebacker: Ellie-Bear?!?

That last one pulls a gasp out of me before I can stop it. Ellie’s head snaps around, and the look on her face tells me she knows exactly how long I’ve been watching.