Free For Keeps by Natasha Friend Page B

even want to try to get to know them?”
    No , I think. I already had grandparents. Maybe they never lived in a mansion or went to some Ivy League college, but at least they were there for me.
    “Do you have any idea how lucky you are that this is happening?” Liv says. “There are people who try for years to find family members. Decades , even. Dr. Steve had this show once, and this girl—”
    “Please,” I say. “Not Dr. Steve.”
    “I’m just saying, if I were you—”
    “But you’re not.”
    “But if I were —”
    “But you’re not , Liv, OK? You’re not me!” I realize I’m yelling and lower my voice. “Just . . . you don’t know how I feel about this. . . . I don’t know how I feel about this. OK?”
    Liv grimaces. “OK. Sorry.”
    “It’s OK.” I sit down on the bed next to her. “My mom would wig, if she knew.”
    “Are you going to tell her?”
    “I don’t know yet.”
    Liv raises her eyebrows, but I don’t elaborate.
    Because there is my mother’s voice, calling from downstairs.
    The steak is ready.

    Here’s what a fly on the wall would think: Gosh, what a lovely dinner party. Lovely food, lovely conversation, lovely people, everyone getting along, no painful or awkward moments. Overall, a solid B-plus evening.
    Here’s what I am thinking: Is it bedtime yet? I’m sitting at the table, watching my mom and Jonathan make goo-goo eyes at each other, and all I want to do is evaporate from the dining room.
    Which makes me feel like a jerk. A horrible daughter. Because the fact of the matter is, Jonathan is a nice guy. Perfectly nice! Nice-looking, nice manners. When Wyatt mentions he’s a Red Sox fan, Jonathan says the nicest possible thing: “I’ve got season tickets. Name your game, and they’re yours.” But seeing Jonathan reach out and take my mother’s hand between bites of apple pie makes me want to poke him with a fork.
    I’m sorry, but it’s true.
    It takes every ounce of restraint in my body not to yell across the table, You just met!
    Later, lying in bed, I feel like crap. I tell myself that tomorrow I will try harder: give Jonathan a chance, for my mom’s sake.
    And while I’m at it, I should probably tell her about seeing Paul Tucci’s dad and the whole moved-back thing. Maybe she’ll say, “Ah, well, how nice for them.” Better yet, “The Tuccis are ancient history, Josie. I’ve moved on. I’ve got Jonathan now.”
    I don’t think that’s what she’ll say, but who knows? I should at least give her the information. Then she can do what she wants with it.

Seven
    SIX THIRTY A.M. and my mother is MIA. All I see is a yellow Post-it, stuck next to a carton of juice on the counter.
J-Bear,
Jonathan and I went for a run.
He made granola!
Help yourself!
Love, Mom
    Which means one of two things: either he woke up at the crack of dawn to get here, or he slept over.
    Well.
    OK, this is none of my business. They’re consenting adults. And anyway, it’s kind of a relief not to be having the Big Debriefing about last night’s dinner and how great it was. In fact, I don’t have to talk at all. Not like every other morning when my mom is firing questions at me about school or soccer or “the boy” or Liv or my deepest, most intimate feelings or any of that other crap that mothers love to bond over with their daughters right when they wake up.
    For the first time in my life, I can eat breakfast in peace. Which is actually kind of nice. Yes, it is.

    “Who makes granola, anyway?” I ask Liv on the bus.
    “I don’t know,” she says. “Nature lovers?”
    I snort.
    “Why does it bother you?”
    “It doesn’t bother me.”
    “I thought you liked Jonathan.”
    “I do. Jonathan is . . . fine.”
    “OK,” she says slowly. “So, what’s the problem?”
    “I don’t know. I don’t know! It’s just . . . happening too fast.”
    “In what way? Wait—” She pushes my arm. “Did he stay over last night?”
    I shake my head. Then I nod. “I think