Until Friday Night, page 22
part #1 of The Field Party Series
and sat down beside her.
“It can’t be all that bad. It’s Christmas,” I said, hoping to lighten the mood. I didn’t mention the fact she reminded me of a princess and I’d never seen one of those cry on television.
She sniffed again and wiped at her face. “It doesn’t feel like it,” she’d whispered back.
“What with all the Christmas music and the way this house is decked out with more decorations than the entire town of Lawton? How can it not feel like Christmas?”
The girl looked away from me. Her face remained sad. “Not everything is what it seems. Not everyone is what they should be or appear to be.”
How old was this girl? She talked like she was grown. But she didn’t look any older than Brady and me. “One of your friends do you wrong?” I asked. I knew about girl drama. Happened at school all the time.
“I wish,” she whispered, not looking back at me.
She wasn’t a real open book. I was getting tired of trying to cheer her up, because I obviously sucked at it. “Whoever it is isn’t worth your time if they’re making you sad like this.”
Finally she glanced back at me. “We don’t always get to choose who we give our time to. We don’t get to choose our parents, for example. And we don’t get to make their decisions for them. So it’s not that simple. He’s my dad. I love him. I have to love him. But he hurts her. She tries so hard to make him happy, but he’s always off with someone else. Like tonight. He’s supposed to be here. He promised her he would be.”
I didn’t know what that felt like. My parents loved each other and I could never imagine my dad hurting my mom. But it sounded like this girl had a very different life. One I wasn’t envious of. Even if her house was bigger than the church I went to on Sunday. It was even bigger than Gunner Lawton’s house, and that was big.
“Then yeah, that sucks,” I said, not knowing what else to say.
“Yeah, it does,” had been her only response.
Brady had called my name then, and because I didn’t know what to do or what to say, I left her there. When she’d come to eat, I couldn’t make eye contact with her because I felt guilty for not being able to help her. And for knowing her secrets.
We were both in the photo that they’d taken that night. When I saw her little girl face, the memories came flooding back. I’d completely forgotten about that girl and what she’d told me. But that Christmas I remembered thanking God for my parents. I realized I’d been blessed with good ones.
“That was you,” I said, looking at her as my heart broke for the little girl I wanted to go back and hold. She’d shared her secrets with a stupid boy who’d done nothing to make her feel better.
She frowned as if she didn’t know what I was talking about, and then her eyes lit with understanding. “Oh my God. I forgot. . . . I was so upset that night. But it was just one of many nights I felt that way,” she said as her fingertip gently brushed over my face in the photo.
“You were the only person I ever told that to. I regret that. Not telling anyone my secrets. I might have saved her if I had,” she whispered, lost in her thoughts.
I pulled her against me. I wasn’t going to let her dwell on her regrets. “You were a kid. We both were. Confused kids who didn’t know the right answer to anything. He was your father. You loved him. Don’t blame yourself for something you couldn’t control.”
Maggie laid her head on my shoulder and her hand on my chest. “Thank you,” she whispered.
I kissed her head. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” she replied.
I had always been told my future was on the field and I could be somebody great. And I had wanted that. Until I found somebody who needed me. And I realized the only person I wanted to be great for was her.
Acknowledgments
Going back to high school Friday nights, football games, first loves, first heartbreaks, and, of course, field parties has been something I wanted to do since I closed the Vincent Boys series in 2012. The story of West and Maggie has been building in my head for a very long time. I’m thankful that I was given the chance to write it. I loved every minute of it.
A big thank-you to my editor, Sara Sargent. She put up with my intensity while writing this story. She listened to me, and I believe with her help, this book has become the best it can be. Also I want to mention Mara Anastas, Jodie Hockensmith, Carolyn Swerdloff, and the rest of the Simon Pulse team, for all their hard work in getting my books out there.
My agent, Jane Dystel. She’s there for me when I’m having a hard time working on a story, when I need to vent, and even if I just need a recommendation on a good place to eat in New York City. I’m thankful to have her on my side.
When I started writing, I never imagined having a group of readers come together for the sole purpose of supporting me. Abbi’s Army, led by Danielle Lagasse, humbles me and gives me a place of refuge. When I need my spirits lifted, these ladies are there. I love every one of you.
Natasha Tomic and Autumn Hull for beta reading my books and helping me make each story better. Without them, I would be lost. I love you both.
Colleen Hoover and Jamie McGuire for always being there and understanding me in a way no one else can. These two know my biggest faults and love me anyway. They get me, and in this world it’s hard to find someone who can relate to what you’re dealing with.
Last but certainly not least: my family. Without their support, I wouldn’t be here. My husband, Keith, makes sure I have my coffee and the kids are all taken care of when I need to lock myself away and meet a deadline. My three kids are so understanding, although once I walk out of that writing cave, they expect my full attention, and they get it. My parents, who have supported me all along. Even when I decided to write steamier stuff. My friends, who don’t hate me when my writing is taking over. They are my ultimate support group, and I love them dearly.
My readers. I never expected to have so many of you. Thank you for reading my books. For loving them and telling others about them. Without you, I wouldn’t be here. It’s that simple.
