The Love That Split the World(26)

“You’re in rare form,” I say, trying to sound lighthearted.

Derek guffaws. “Rare? This is classic Matty Kincaid. Now he’s off your leash, boy likes to party.”

“Oh, shuttup,” Matt says, clumsily slugging Derek’s arm. “Come up here, girls.”

“Is there room?” I say, scanning the packed truck.

“Course there’s room, Nat,” Matt says. “Come ’ere.”

“You two,” Rachel says, pointing to two juniors. “Get out. Sorry, birthday boy’s wishes.”

The girls exchange affronted looks but ultimately obey, and Matt helps pull us up—or at least, he’s sloppy enough to think he’s helping.

“Can’t believe it,” Derek says. “Baby Matty’s eighteen. We’re all grown up.”

“Are you kidding me?” Rachel says. “Five minutes ago you asked me to take a picture of your bare butt with Matt’s donkey.”

“Oh yeahhh,” Derek says, hopping up. “I almost forgot about that. Come on, let’s do it.”

“Dude, no.”

“Why not?”

“Why not? Because I’m not an ass photographer, and all you’re gonna do with that is send it to some poor freshmen girls and scar them for life.”

He lifts her hand up and gives it a courtier’s kiss. “My beautiful, wonderful Rachel. Would you please make me the luckiest man on Earth by taking a picture of my ass with that ass?”

“Fine,” she groans. As they serpentine toward the barn, I see Jack and Coco standing off to one side with a semicircle of freshmen and sophomore girls. As usual, the group’s unanimous attention is fixed on Coco and her best friend, Abby, and Jack’s just goofily grinning along. He’s always been able to run with the girls as well as Coco’s been able to run with the boys, and, being four minutes younger, he’s always let her call the shots on where, how, and with whom they spend their time. The second I became a big sister my job as such was already obsolete. Watching from afar has always been my M.O.

Megan lies down in the truck bed beside me, and I realize the rest of the group has split off. It’s just the two of us and Matt now, how it used to be. I lie back too, then Matt does, and the three of us look up at the sky.

“Look,” Megan says, “the Big Dipper.”

“What’s a dipper?” Matt slurs. “I mean, think about it.”

“It’s a ladle,” Megan says.

“It’s a boat,” I disagree. At least that was my favorite of the explanations Grandmother gave. “It carries the souls of good people across the Milky Way, the so-lo-pi he-ni, to the City in the West when they die.”

“So-lo-pi he-ni,” Megan repeats dreamily.

“Sssolopahennu,” Matt says.

“Hey.” A new voice comes from the foot of the truck. I look down toward my feet and see Brian Walters, of varsity soccer fame, with his pretty blue eyes fixed on Megan.

Megan sits up quickly, pulling the strap of her tank top back up her shoulder and brushing her bangs aside. “Hi.”

“Did you go see the animals yet?” he asks, awkwardly shifting his weight between his feet.

“No, not yet,” Megan says, as if we haven’t all seen Matty’s cows and goats and donkey a thousand times.

“Me neither,” he says, nodding.

I look back up at the sky, cringing. “Well, what are you two waiting for?” I say. “If you hurry, you might get to see the extra ass that’s in the barn right now.”

Megan scoots to the end of the truck and hops off, hiking her jeans up by the waistband and brushing stray bits of hay from her clothes. “Can’t miss out on that.”

I watch them make their way toward the open barn doors, the golden light spilling out over the soft wispy grass and the gravel lot, suddenly wholly conscious of the fact that Matt and I are alone. “Well, that made me want to scratch my face off,” I say. “Since when is Brian so shy?”

Matt doesn’t answer, and we lie there for a while longer, contemplating the stars and all their stories in utter silence.

“It wasn’t all bad, was it, Nat?” he says finally.

“What wasn’t all bad?”

“Us.”

“Of course not,” I say. “Hardly any of it was bad.”

“Thasss what I thought too,” he slurs. “I donwanyou to think I love you despite things. I hate that I made you feel like that.”

“Matt,” I say. “You were a great boyfriend. That wasn’t the problem.”

“You always looked so cute over on the sidelines with that little ponytail,” he murmurs. “Made me wanna win to make you proud.”

“I always was proud,” I tell him. It’s the truth. “You play football like it’s a science. You made me love the game.”

He laughs. “You don’t love the game.”

“Fine, tolerate it,” I amend. “Sometimes even enjoy it.” It’s true I’ve never loved, and probably will never love, football. But watching Matt play—and Jack too—always fascinated me. The thing about football is once you get past the point system and general cultishness, it’s exactly like any other hobby or skill: There’s a generally agreed-upon technique, and then there’s personal style. The latter, for those who look, is a window to a person’s soul. Personal style is my mom, after some red wine, walking like she intends to restore order and beauty to the world with her posture alone. It’s Rachel dancing like she’s fighting her way out of quicksand, Megan running across the field like she’s floating on her back in the ocean. And it’s Matt Kincaid playing football tidily, like he’s checking off boxes.