Page 152 of With the Assist

Usually, that hour was spoken for before it even started. I used it to run to the grocery store, or head home to switch over the laundry, or start dinner if it was one of those days. The kind of quiet, necessary things that kept everything moving. The kind of things my dad never had time to get to, no matter how hard he tried.

He never asked me to do it. Not once. Hell, he never even hinted.

But by sixteen, I’d already been filling in the gaps for two years, and somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like a choice. It was routine. For all of us.

That day, though, when they asked, I said yes.

I remember how it felt, too. Sitting there in that cracked vinyl booth, laughing so hard my stomach hurt, my headtipping back like I didn’t have a single thing waiting on me. For that hour, it felt like I got to be sixteen in the way everyone else was.

It was only an hour. It wasn’t a big deal. I told myself I could do all three. I could show up for my family, keep up with soccer, and still carve out space for something as small and harmless as hanging out with friends.

It worked.

Right up until my phone buzzed halfway through my milkshake.

It was my dad asking me where I was. His voice had been tight, not angry, but stretched thin with panic.

The shift in my chest was immediate, like a switch flipping as I told him I was out with friends.

I remember him cutting me off impatiently. Emma’s field trip form was still sitting on the counter. I’d forgotten to make sure she took it to school that morning. He had work, and the school office was closing in less than half an hour.

They wouldn’t let her go if it wasn’t turned in.

Emma had been talking about that field trip for weeks.

I’ve never forgotten the frustration that bled into my dad’s voice when he reminded me that I was supposed to turn it in, and it was almost too late. Because I’d forgotten.

I pushed to my feet without a second thought, my chair scraping loudly against the tile as I bolted for home. It was a long shot, but I wanted to fix it.

The whole way home, I kept thinking about how I should’ve never gone in the first place.

When I got there, Emma was sitting at the kitchen table, her eyes red and her hands curled around the edges of the form like it might vanish if she let go. My dad kissed my forehead on his way out, already halfway out the door before I could say anything.

We made it.

I got her to the school with minutes to spare, breathless and flushed, the secretary clearly annoyed as she took the paper from my hand. But Emma would go. Back then, that was the only thing that mattered.

The relief barely had time to settle before I saw the clock and felt something entirely different take its place.

I was late for practice. Not slightly late. Really fucking late.

By the time I got to the field and got Emma settled into the stands with a juice box and a smile, practice was already in full swing. Coach didn’t say anything when I slid in, just blew the whistle and pointed for me to join the drills.

But I remember the flash of disappointment on his face.

It was quick, almost gone before it even fully landed, but it was there. It was the same tight edge I’d heard in my dad’s voice on the phone.

I ran harder than I ever had that day.

Hell, I’m still running nearly ten years later, and it never fully goes away.

I remember tucking Emma into bed that night, her hugging me like turning in that form was the difference between everything and nothing.

She told me she thought she wasn’t going to get to go.

“You will always get to go,” I told her.

And I meant it.