Oh, Jesus. Was she thinking of him? When she closed her eyes and opened her legs, was she thinking of him when she came? Like a goddamn meteor shower, the what-ifs come crashing down. What if this isn’t new? What if he loves her? What if she loves him? Who started it? Where are they this very minute? And—

“Bobby?”

I look up at my friend. Van Halen oozes from the jukebox like a corny soundtrack to our bromance moment. “Thanks for everything,” I say.

He slaps me on the back, leaves me with the tab, and heads home to Emily and spaghetti pie. I nearly order another drink. I nearly throw a round of darts. Instead, I make the mistake of looking around this tired bar. These people come here every night to drink and play pool and bask in neon light, don’t they? They tell the same stale jokes. They eat leftover spaghetti pie and salads that come out of bags. I don’t belong here. I never did. I throw thirty bucks on the bar and leave. A herd of dudes bursts into laughter just before the door closes. I can’t help but cringe. I can’t help but hate them all.

Emily

By the time Raymond shimmies down the bleachers—all, Excuse me, pardon me, slapping other kids’ dads on the back—Bianca’s side is up two points. It’s just a clinic, not even a proper game for a proper league, but some of these parents are in it to win it, no joke.

“What did I miss?” Ray asks, kissing my cheek.

“Shirts and skins. White jerseys are skins. Gabby scored for shirts. Sarah, Leona, and Mikaela each scored for skins. Bianca’s still on the bench. She’s a skin.”

Ray cups his hands around his mouth and screams, “Give ’em hell, B!” Our daughter glares at Raymond, then hangs her head and puts her hands over her ears. The lady in front of us spins around to judge Ray. He grins and says, “Hi,” to her.

“So?” I ask. “How was it?”

Raymond closes his eyes and shakes his head.

“That bad.”

An exasperated, pfft. “He’s a mess, Em. Started crying at the bar, swear to God.”

“Oh God. What’s going on?”

“He thinks some friend of Jonah’s wants to fuck Elizabeth.” He says fuck Elizabeth right as the cheers fall off to silence.

“Jesus,” I whisper. The lady in front of us twists to see who said Jesus, or maybe fuck. I whisper to Raymond, “So is he paranoid, or what?”

“I don’t know. Boys that age are capable of some pretty deviant shit. I told him to shut it down regardless. Told him about how Mark Wycott bashed Steve Dunn’s headlights in just for sweet-talking Shelly that one time.”

The shirts score and the skins’ parents boo. I tell Raymond, “Mark didn’t do that.”

“Huh?”