“Maybe you can cook for me sometime,” Rosaline clarified, letting go of Poppy’s shirt and reaching the hand Poppy was resting on the counter. She flipped Poppy’s hand over and, with the tip of her finger, traced the lines of her palm leaving shivery tingles in her wake. Her gaze lifted, eyes flitting over Poppy’s face. “Show me what I’m missing.”
“Oh.” Poppy nodded and fought the urge to curl her fingers around Rosaline’s. Hold her hand. “Sure. I could—I could do that. How do you feel about Indian? I just learned how to make saag paneer. I could make that.”
Rosaline ducked her head and, for whatever reason, smiled at her lap. “I’d like that.”
“Cool.” Poppy nodded then stopped, worried that she resembled an overeager bobblehead.
“You were going to tell me all about the other secret skills you possess,” Rosaline prompted, thumb sweeping an incredibly diverting arc against the inside of Poppy’s wrist.
She reached for her soda and took a long sip. “I’m training for a marathon. Or, well, Cash and I are training for a marathon. Cash is trainingmefor a marathon.” He’d put together a detailed training regimen and everything. “Not that that’s a skill, really.”
And not that she was particularly good at it. But she wokeup at the ass crack of dawn and ran however many miles Cash told her to and then she did it again the next morning and the next after that. She might not be fast, and her form might not be pretty, but she was dedicated and that counted for something.
“A marathon,” Rosaline repeated, nose scrunching adorably. “Wow, your masochistic tendencies run deeper than I realized.”
Poppy choked, soda spilling down her chin, droplets dotting the counter. Rosaline cackled and she glared. “I am not a masochist.”
“No, you just like beating yourself up for things that aren’t your fault.” Rosaline stretched across the counter and grabbed a napkin. Rather than hand it over, she dabbed at Poppy’s chin, cleaning the cherry vanilla soda off her face. “Why a marathon?”
Poppy puffed out her cheeks. “It’s kind of a long story.”
Inadvertently, she’d steered them toward another none-too-breezy topic.
Rosaline made a big production of looking around the kitchen. “Does it look like I have somewhere to be,” she said, tapping her phone, checking the time, “at eleven twenty-seven at night?”
Poppy picked at her sandwich one-handed and gnawed on her lip. “It was Cash’s idea. I guess studies show running reduces stress and improves your mood.” She shrugged. “Helps your mental health. And um, last year, I sort of needed all the help I could get with that.”
The marathon training and the cooking lessons had both been part of Cash’s holistic Get Poppy Better plan.In addition to therapy, obviously, but beyond driving her to her appointments and lending her an ear, Cash wasn’t qualified to help her there.
“You’re right,” Rosaline said, fingers dancing across Poppy’s palm. “Thatwasa long story.”
A snort escaped her. “You think you’re hilarious, don’t you?”
“I don’tthink,” Rosaline said loftily before her whole face softened and she squeezed Poppy’s hand. “So it’s working then? The running?”
“It’s either that or the Lexapro,” she joked. “It’s not a silver bullet or anything like that—I know better than to believe those exist. But I like it. Well, actually, I hate it while I’m doing it, and sometimes I desperately want to quit, but it does make me feel better afterward. And it’s nice to have a goal, something to push myself toward.”
“Twenty-six point two miles.” Rosaline whistled, nudging Poppy with her knee. “That’s kind of badass, Peterson.”
Poppy laughed, face warming pleasantly under the praise. “It’s running. People have been doing it since the dawn of time.”
Rosaline reached out and flicked her between the eyes.
“Hey!” Poppy laughed and rubbed her forehead. “What the fuck was that?”
“Your inability to take a compliment outside of sex is vexing. Stop it.”
She laughed harder. “Oh, well if it’svexing.”
Rosaline gave her a flat glare. “It’s annoying as fuck. I don’t like it.”
“You’re not exactly great at taking a compliment, either, you know.”
“Well, I guess it’s a good thing we’re not talking about me then, isn’t it?” Rosaline smirked. “So, tell me—when you aren’t corralling Curran or training for your marathon, both of which I find admirable in their own right, what does Poppy Peterson like to do in her free time? Any other masochistic hobbies I should know about? Self-flagellation, maybe?”
“Hm,” she pretended to think about it. “Does being a Mariners’ fan count as self-flagellation?”
Rosaline laughed. “Yes.”
