“That’s true,” I murmur. And I feel for the guy. “But our father is an adult, you know? The destruction of his marriage is about to celebrate its third anniversary. He can either stew about it, or he can find a way to move on.”

“Good luck telling him that.”

“Oh I’ve tried.” I was gentle, of course. I’m not a monster. The problem is that my father prefers rage to action. He’ll spend the whole holiday muttering about “that bitch,” which is how he refers to our mother.

Or, if Stevie went to Mom’s house instead, Dad would be mad at him for days. You really can’t win with him anymore.

He doesn’t see how much this upsets us either. Sure, we were all pretty astonished when Mom left Dad. It was brutal. But she’s still our Mom, and she still loves us. Three years later, and our father still expects us to take sides. It’s fucking exhausting.

I shove a hand into my pocket and absently rub the smooth piece of obsidian stone that’s resting there. Our assistant coach is really into crystals. He said obsidian would help me get rid of “emotional blockage” and give me strength, clarity, and compassion.

But what if I’m not the one who needs it? How much obsidian can I sneak into my father’s house without him noticing?

My parents’ divorce is why I no longer go home for Thanksgiving. And also why I will never ever fall in love. It turns you into a bitter freak when it ends.

“Dude, you have to come home for Christmas,” my brother says. “If you tell me you have a date, I’m going to drive up there and haul you back here myself.”

“Yeah, okay.” There’s no way I can pretend to be busy on Christmas Day. “I’ll come home. We’ll stay with Dad, yeah?”

“Yeah. And bring some nice clothes.”

“Why?” I demand. “For church?” My parents still insist on attending the same church. Neither one of them is willing to be the one who leaves. As far as I can tell, they sit on opposite sides of the room shooting daggers at each other while the priest stands up front preaching about love and forgiveness.

“Worse,” Stevie grumbles. “Mom is throwing an engagement party for Lauren on the day before Christmas Eve.”

“Oh shit,” I whisper. Then I let out a groan.

“Yeah.” My brother sighs. We both know what that means—Mom and Dad at the same party for the first time in three years. With alcohol, too. It could be bad bad bad. “You’ll be there, right? If you try to blow this off, I’ll tell Dad it was you who scratched his Mercedes by having sex up against it.”

“Rude,” I grunt. “You know that was a freak accident.” I’d set my date up on the hood and we’d had a fine time. Who could have guessed that her short little skirt had metal grommets on the back? What kind of fashion designer thought that was a good idea?