Page 211 of What We Bury

Jamie, mercifully, does not.

Another message hits.

Milo:

There was no alley. Only grass and judgmental retirees.

Holden spent the whole time looking like he was about to arrest a pensioner.

Knox tried to throw one through a hedge.

Micah:

He did not try.

He succeeded.

Holden:

You’re full of shit. I had no plans of arresting anyone.

Anyway, we lost. Terribly.

MILO:

WE WERE ROBBED

HOLDEN:

We were not robbed. We simply suck at this game we’ve never played.

MILO:

knox back me up

KNOX:

The oldies were better than us.

MILO:

I AM SURROUNDED BY COWARDS AND TRAITORS!!!!!!!!!

Then a photo comes through from Micah: Milo, beaming, in flat white rental shoes that look too big, cradling a teal ball the size of a grapefruit like a newborn, flanked by a wall of horrified pensioners in pressed whites. Across the bottom, it’s been captioned:

BALLS OF FURY: 0 dignity, 1 borrowed shoe fungus.

The three of us hang over the text thread, Amy cackling, Jamie’s shoulder warm against mine, Milo typing and deleting and typing again at the bottom of the screen. And for one whole bright minute there’s no panic. No sharp edges. No blood under my fingernails and no fifth man standing in my kitchen telling me he’s done.

There’s just this. Table cake. My best friends’ laughter. And a phone full of idiots who love me.

I let myself have it.

When I look up, Jamie isn’t looking at the phone. He’s looking at me—that warm, still attention of his—smiling like my being happy is the best thing he’s seen all day.

“They sound wonderful,” he says.

“They’re a disaster.”