Page 157 of Made Better Together

TINA: So proud of you, Eden! Also, I just saw this on Facebook? You and Connor Battle???

I look at the screenshot she sent, and yes, damn, it’s the kissing picture from SoccerQueen’s post, only the Facebook version. She must have cross-posted it.

I hadn’t even thought of Facebook. Tags there push posts in your “Friends” feeds. No wonder Tina saw it.

And…I’m spiraling again.

EDEN: OMG. This was not supposed to be for public consumption.

EDEN: Have you told Dad?

TINA: No, he’s on his flight home right now. So he doesn’t know??

God, this sucks.

EDEN: He doesn’t. I’m sorry to ask, but can you not tell him now? Let me do it?

It takes her almost a minute to respond.

TINA: Okay. Why don’t you come over tomorrow for breakfast and talk to him then? I don’t want to keep it from him longer than that.

I can’t think of any way to protest—it’s probably the best thing to do anyway. So I agree, and then turn to Bree.

“My stepmom saw the post on Facebook.” I frantically untag myself there, the first time I’ve opened up Facebook in forever.

“Shit. So your Dad…”

“Gonna have to tell him. I hope it doesn’t screw up Connor’s situation on the team.”

Bree considers the question. “I don’t see how it would. He might be annoyed, but Connor earned his spot.”

“Yeah.” Of course it’s the other situation—his old internship and future job, at SLP—that’s more dicey. Where a hard line had been crossed. “Let me text Connor now.”

I resume my initial message to him, but have to edit the beginning.

EDEN: Hi, a post went up that includes a picture of us kissing. I’ve limited the damage, but long story short, Tina saw it, and I’m going to have to tell Dad. We can talk more as soon as I’m off the bus?

A few seconds later, I see three dots, and then his message comes in.

CONNOR: I was just texting you. Milo called me. He saw and wants to talk in the office tomorrow morning.

Noooo, that’s even worse than the chat with my dad.

44

CONNOR

TEN MINUTES EARLIER

The first two hours of the drive home fly by as I’m still high on Tolliver’s win. Eden’s win.

But with four hours still ahead of me, my right leg starts to ache, and my eyes begin to droop. I pull off to get a Red Bull and stretch for a minute.

“That’s $3.43, big man,” the attendant says when I get to the front of the checkout.

I gulp a sip and open my door. As I’m crouching down, my phone rings. Checking the caller ID, I see it’s Milo.

Huh. Better get it.