Our Playbooks

Chapter 4

Meg

I’ve been watching the window every five minutes since I got off the phone, waiting for my best friends. The second I spot Ellie coming down the sidewalk, I squeal and race for the stairs, nearly losing my balance on the way down.

I don’t give her the chance to knock. I’ve already swung the door open and flung myself into her arms before she can even lift her hand. She catches me — graceful as always — and steadies us both before hugging me back with a firm, reassuring squeeze. “Wow,” she says, grinning, her voice warm and teasing, “it’s like you didn’t just see me yesterday.”

I know I shouldn’t worry, but I do anyway. When her parents are home, they watch Ellie like they’re waiting for her to get sick — like illness is the only thing they know how to respond to. When they’re gone, her house sits too quiet, the kind of quiet that has a weight to it. She always claims she’s fine, but something in the way she says it – too quick, too flat – makes my stomach tighten. She’s hiding something, and I hate that I can’t figure out what.

“I know,” I say, tightening my hold on her, “but I worry about you being left alone with them — especially when they’re the ones who keep leaving you.” I press my chin against her shoulder. “You don’t deserve that. Someone should really tell them.”

Ellie and I are about the same height — I’m maybe an inch taller. Her honey-brown skin glows, and her shoulder-length balayage, brunette streaked with caramel blonde, catches the morning light like she’s been kissed by the sun. But her eyes are my favorite thing about her: hazel-brown with gold flecks that glow when the light hits them just right.

“Would you release that poor girl and come inside for breakfast?” my mom calls from the doorway.

I let go of Ellie, grab her hand, and pull her inside. The warm smell of bacon and melted butter wraps around us the moment the door closes. My parents own The Book Bean Cafe and trade off shifts, so there’s always someone home — it’s less a rule than just the way things are.

In the kitchen, Ellie and I slide onto the counter stools across from my mom, who’s flipping the last of the bacon. The strips sizzle and pop, sending up little curls of smoke that smell like Sunday mornings.

My mom looks up from the pan and her face does that thing it always does when she sees Ellie — softens, just a little, like she’s handling something precious. “Hey, sweetheart, how are you this morning?”

“I’m good, Mrs. Jacquelyn,” Ellie says, and the smile she gives her is the warmest one I’ve seen from her all morning. “How are you?”

That smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. There’s a subtle tension in her posture, and her fingers tap a quiet, restless rhythm against the counter — the way they always do when someone makes a fuss over her. Still, it’s seamless. No cracks, no tells. I hate that she’s gotten so good at it, like the mask has become part of her face.

“Oh, thank you for asking, sweetheart. I’m good too — slept like a pile of logs,” my mom says.

I smack my hand to my forehead, heat creeping up my neck. “Mom. What does that even mean?”

My mom loves idioms, but hers are never the ones that make sense. Just say you slept well. We don’t need the pile of logs.

She ignores my question entirely and turns to Ellie. “What did you and your parents do for dinner?”

“My parents were doing some last-minute things,” Ellie says, lifting one shoulder. “So I just made grilled cheese.”

“Oh, but your grilled cheese sandwiches are delicious,” my mom says, sliding a plate toward her. “How’d you sleep, sweetheart? Are you ready for school on Tuesday?”

“I slept well,” Ellie says, wrapping both hands around her glass. “And honestly, I’m just excited to get back to cheering and dancing. Friday games are the best part.”

I can’t help but jump in — I’ve been ready since the second week of summer, the moment we got our new uniforms. “Oh my god, same. I can’t wait to wear them on Friday. The new routines are so fun, I’ve literally been practicing in my room.”

“It’s just a scrimmage,” Ellie says, the corner of her mouth lifting.

She knows exactly why I love wearing my uniform. It always gets a certain football player to look at me — or more specifically, at my legs.

I ignore her. “Okay, but pep rallies are my favorite thing, and the halftime routine is genuinely amazing. The round-off into the splits?” I press a hand to my chest. “Best move we’ve learned so far.”

I remember the first time I tried it at practice — my best friends, the absolute show-offs, nailed it immediately. But that’s the thing I love about learning something new: the struggle, the moment it finally clicks, and the proof that I can do anything if I put in the work.

“You girls and your cheer routines,” my mom says, shaking her head with a smile. “Where is Cammy, anyway?”

The front door swings open and slams shut before my mom even finishes the question. Moments later, Cammy appears in the kitchen doorway, sock-footed and slightly out of breath, and moves to stand behind Ellie. “Permission to hug?” she asks softly.

Ellie smiles and nods. Cammy’s shoulders drop with visible relief, and she lets out a quiet “Yay” before wrapping Ellie in a full bear hug from behind, nearly lifting her off the stool.

Cammy’s shy and quiet around most people, but never with us. She’s the same height as Ellie, and they could almost be twins — except for Cammy’s deeper, sun-kissed sienna skin, which tells you exactly how much of the summer she spent outside. Her raven-black hair falls to her shoulders, framing chestnut-brown eyes that remind me of melted chocolate. Both of them have been through so much. Cammy’s teasing laugh comes easily now, a glint of real joy behind it, but Ellie? I keep searching her face for that same spark — watching for the moment her shoulders might drop, or her gaze might soften — and I keep coming up empty.

“Missed you, too,” Ellie says, patting the arms that are wrapped around her.

Cammy unwraps herself from Ellie and slides onto the stool between us. “What’s for breakfast, Mama J?”

Cammy always asks Ellie before hugging her — neither of them likes being caught off guard. But at least Cammy lets it slip sometimes. Ellie never does. She’s worn that mask so long it probably doesn’t feel like one anymore. Still, in the rare unguarded moments, I catch a glimpse of the girl underneath: quiet, lonely, and so much younger than she lets on. I want to pull her out of it. I just don’t know how.

“The usual — how many pancakes would you like, sweetpea?” my mom asks, already reaching for the spatula.

“Three, please,” Cammy says, picking her plate up and waiting patiently for my mom to dish out three pancakes, a scoop of

scrambled eggs, and several slices of bacon.

“Thank you.”

“Of course, sweetpea,” my mom says warmly, then turns to Ellie. “How many for you, sweetheart?”

I smile into my orange juice. My mom has a nickname for everyone. My brothers and I are her sweeties. Cammy’s her sweetpea — tiny and quiet, it fits. Ellie is her sweetheart, though I’ve never thought to ask why. I make a mental note to ask before I forget again.

“Two, please,” Ellie says, holding up her plate like Cammy did. Once my mom loads it up, I hold mine out too. She already knows exactly how much I want.

We talk with mouths full — or really, I talk while they nod. I'm the planner, so I've already set an alarm for five-thirty to get ready for our annual drive-in movie night. We didn't go yesterday because Ellie's parents never let her out of their sight when they're home. They don't interact with her, just watch — like they're waiting for something to go wrong, like getting sick is the only language they know. I don't understand it. Ellie never talks about her brother or her parents, and whenever I try to check in, Cammy's elbow finds my ribs before I can finish the sentence. I love Ellie like a sister. But loving someone from a distance still leaves you standing on the outside looking in.

Ellie stands, carries her plate to the sink, and wraps my mom in a quiet hug. “Thank you for breakfast, Mrs. Jacquelyn,” she says. “I’d love to stay, but I think I’m going to head home.”

I snap out of my thoughts and stand. “But Ell —” Cammy’s elbow finds my ribs before I can finish, and when I glance at her, her expression says it all: don’t.

“I’ll walk you home,” Cammy says. “My mom’s expecting me back anyway — the baby could come any day now, so she wants me close just in case.”

“But -” I try again.

“Sweetie, your dad needs help at the cafe — he’s swamped,” my mom says, giving me a look that doesn’t leave room for argument. She softens the moment she turns to Cammy and Ellie. “You girls will see each other tonight.”

I’m still processing when I realize Cammy and Ellie are already halfway to the door, their voices dropping the farther they get.

I follow them into the hallway. “Wait,” I say, and before Cammy can shoot me another look, I pull them both into a hug. “I love

you both,” I murmur into the middle of it. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“We love you too,” Cammy says when we pull apart.

“See you tonight,” Ellie says, lifting one hand in a small wave. Then they’re gone, the door clicking shut, and the hallway feels immediately quieter without them.

I turn around. My mom is leaning against the kitchen doorframe, arms crossed loosely, her brow creased with something between concern and patience. “Are you okay, sweetie?”

“Yes.” I cross the kitchen toward her. “But also no.” I lean against the counter beside her. “I just feel a little left out, I guess.”

“I know, sweetie.” She reaches out and rubs my arms, slow and steady, the way she’s done since I was little. “But they’ve both lost so much. Ellie especially. She still needs time, and sometimes the only thing you can give someone is exactly that — time.”

I nod. She squeezes my shoulder and turns toward the stairs, and I almost let her go — but something stops me. “Hey, Mom?”

She stops mid-step and turns back, one hand on the railing. “Yes, sweetie?”

“You told me why you call Cammy sweetpea,” I say, “but why do you call Ellie sweetheart?”

My mom’s smile softens, tinged with both sadness and pride. “Because she may not show her heart the way most people do,” she says quietly, “but she has the sweetest one I’ve ever seen.” She pauses, like she’s deciding how much to say. “When her brother got sick, she changed her whole diet — put herself on a heart-healthy plan so she’d be strong enough to help him however he needed. Even just to hold his hand. She never did anything reckless. When she fell in love with tumbling and eventually cheerleading, she learned everything safely, every single time. She didn’t want to risk getting hurt and not being able to be there for him.”

My mom’s voice catches. She wipes at her eyes and sinks down onto the step, and I sit beside her without a word. “She taught herself how to cook and clean,” she continues, her voice quieter now. “She even asked her mom to teach her medical things — how to take vitals, how to keep everything sterile.”

“She wanted to protect him from everything — even herself. She’d shower in the downstairs bathroom, seal her clothes in plastic medical bags, run through a full disinfecting routine before she’d even go upstairs. Then she’d put on fresh clothes and go sit with him, help him with whatever he needed.” My mom looks at me, tears moving freely down her face now. “That girl grew up so fast. But the way she cares — how brave she was at such a young age, staying quiet and never complaining about any of it — that’s why I call her sweetheart. She does things for people without ever needing them to know. That’s just who she is.”

My vision blurs, and I don’t realize I’m crying until I feel the wetness on my cheeks and wipe at it with the back of my hand. “How do you know all this?” I ask, my voice coming out smaller than I mean it to.

A small smile breaks through my mom’s tears. “When I’d check on them for their mother — when she or her husband got stuck at work — Ellie walked me through the whole process herself.” My mom pauses, pressing her lips together. “She didn’t want me to accidentally get him sick. So she showed me everything, step by step. I followed the same routine every single time I went over.”

“Wow.” The word comes out barely above a whisper, and then I’m in my mom’s arms without quite knowing how I got there, crying into the soft fabric of her shirt.

She kisses the top of my head and lets me cry for a minute, her hand moving in slow circles on my back. Then she sighs. “I’m sorry I dumped all that on you,” she murmurs, “and I hate to ruin the moment — but your father really does need our help.”

I pull back and nod, wiping my face with my sleeve. The air feels different after crying — lighter somehow, and a little raw. “Right,” I say. “I’ll get changed and meet you back down here in ten.”

“Sounds good, sweetie,” she says, kissing my forehead before we both stand and head upstairs.

I wash off the ruined makeup and pull on my black work shirt — the one with the cafe logo on the chest: a little owl in glasses, reading a book with a coffee cup in hand, The Book Bean Cafe arched above it in worn gold letters. It was my grandmother’s place. She ran it for seven years before she passed, and my dad took it over after she died. Now it’s ours. I work there most weekdays during the summer, unless cheer or dance practice gets in the way.

After pulling on black pants to match, I grab my purse and phone and head downstairs. My mom’s already at the bottom, keys in hand, and she gives me a quick once-over before nodding like I’ve passed some silent inspection.

The line’s out the door and halfway down the block when we pull up. It’s going to be a long day. We park in the back and head inside through the employee entrance, and the cafe hits me all at once — espresso and cinnamon and something warm underneath it all, like old books and brown sugar. The espresso machine hisses and gurgles over the low hum of conversation. After washing our hands and tying on our aprons, we squeeze behind the counter to join my dad. The tension drains visibly from his shoulders the moment he spots us.

“Hey, Dad.” I duck behind the counter and give him a quick hug. He smells like coffee and the cedar soap he always uses, and he kisses my forehead before turning to kiss my mom.

Then I’m swept in, and the next few hours blur together — orders called out, coffee poured, the register beeping in a steady rhythm. When we finally clear the line, my mom waves me off for a break. I untie my apron and climb the spiral staircase to the second floor, where the library is quieter and the air smells faintly of dust and old paperbacks. My favorite spot is in the far back corner: a bay window with worn cushions and a view of the street below. I pull out the book I stashed under the pillows last time and curl up to read.

When I finish the last page, I sit with it for a second before tucking the book back on the shelf and checking my phone. Twelve messages. I really did get lost in this one. I open the group chat and scroll through.

Cammy: My mom went into labor, so she’s at the hospital. Can we move movie night to my house tonight?

Cammy: Earth to my best friends, Ellie, did you fall asleep? Meg, are you still working?

Ellie: No, I did not fall asleep. I was cleaning, and I’m okay with the change. Your popcorn is a billion times better than the drive-ins.

Cammy: f*****g facts, <3

Ellie: <3

Cammy: Meg

Cammy: Megan

Cammy: Megan Skye Jones

Ellie: Wow, full government, Camilla Renae Martinez. She’ll answer when she can relax.

Cammy: I don’t want her to get ready for the Drive-in, then see this and say, ‘Dang, I’ve got to change my whole outfit.’ Miss. Eleanor Genevieve Rivers.

Ellie: (Laughing emoji) It’ll be okay, Cammy. She’s busy, stop blowing up her phone.

I smile at their back-and-forth, the tight feeling from earlier in the day loosening just a little. Cammy’s not wrong — I absolutely would have spent an hour on an outfit, only to find out sweats were the move. At least now it doesn’t matter how late I’m stuck here.

Me: Tell your mom congratulations from me, and yes, I’m okay with the venue change. Your Dr. Pepper is way better than the flat stuff at the drive-in anyway.

She answers almost immediately. I laugh out loud — then clap a hand over my mouth when someone shushes me from across the library. I raise an eyebrow in their general direction and return to my phone.

Cammy: b***h yay! I’ll see you all tonight. Sorry if I blew up your phone.

Me: All good! I’ll see you both tonight.

I spend the next few hours reshelving returned books — scanning them in, walking them back to their spots, running my fingers along the spines as I go. There’s something satisfying about putting things back where they belong. My phone buzzes just as I slide the last one into place.

I answer on the second buzz. “Hey, sweetie,” my mom says. “I’m on my way back from getting the boys — do you want me to swing by and get you?”

“Yes, please.” I lean over the railing and glance down at the cafe floor below — the crowd’s thinned to a handful of people, and my dad moves through it easily. “I think Dad’s got it covered.”

“Perfect, I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“Sounds good — I’ll wait out front.”

“Okay, sweetie. Bye.”

“Bye, Mom,” I say, and tap the end button.

I head down the spiral stairs, trailing one hand along the railing, and my dad catches me near the door. “Hey, hun — you heading

home?”

“Yeah, she’s on her way — just picked up the boys.” I pause, watching his face. “Did you need something?”

“Oh, no — you’re good,” he says, waving it off. “I’ll see you later tonight before your movie night.” He comes around the counter

and pulls me into a hug, and I let myself lean into it for a second.

He kisses my forehead, and I squeeze him once before we pull apart. “Bye, Dad.”

“Bye, hun,” he says, already rounding the counter, and I push through the front door into the late-afternoon heat.

My mom pulls up to the curb a few minutes later, the boys already buckled in the back and bickering about something I don’t

catch. I climb in and let the noise wash over me. Once we’re home, I shower off the smell of coffee and old books — standing under the hot water a little longer than I need to — then blow-dry my hair and change into a purple shirt and black leggings. I keep the makeup light: eyeliner, mascara, a swipe of lip gloss. When I check the time, I’m ready two full hours early, so I flop onto my bed and doomscroll t****k until it’s finally time to go.