Our Playbooks

Chapter 5

Meg

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.