And while she could be pointing to two or three different elements, I know what she’s asking about.
It’s three overlapping triangles with a coin in the middle. “That one’s off-limits.”
She touches my thigh just above my left knee as she stands in front of me to trim more hair, and it takes every ounce of self-control I possess to not visibly shiver at her touch.
I like her touching me.
I like her touching me entirely too much.
“Is that mistletoe?” she asks. “With an engagement ring?”
“First relationship I had after the band started. I kissed my sister’s best friend at Christmas. We dated for three months, the last two months long distance because of tour rehearsals in New York, and she was mad that I didn’t send her diamonds for her birthday.”
Her fingers move to my ribs. “The Fireballs dragon?”
Keep touching me. Please keep touching me. “Baseball will be my favorite sport until the day I die. Fireballs forever.”
“Not martial arts?”
“Peace and clarity. Not a sport. We—the guys—the five of us—we were going to buy the Fireballs before Lila inherited the team. It’s what I was supposed to be doing now. Helping run my own baseball team. With the guys. The band. Together. Like we used to be.”
I’m sweating.
I’m sweating, and she can probably see it.
I don’t talk about how much I sometimes miss being part of the band. How I set my work schedule for the past decade to give me as much flexibility as possible so I could drop in and see my buddies regularly despite living an hour on the other side of Copper Valley. How much I loved knowing we’re doing something amazing for the world together.
Not solo.
Together.
“Tripp and Lila wouldn’t give you a job?”
“Not the same.”
“You don’t like to work for other people.”
“Spent the last decade working for other people. I wanted a purpose. To do—to be working together with all of us again. It’s different.”
She falls quiet while she snips at my hair again, dropping more and more into the trash can.
My heart is in a race with itself.
I don’t tell people these stories.
It’s not safe.
You don’t know who’ll sell you out to the paps for a quick profit and who you can trust.
But she doesn’t trust me and I need her to.
Want her to.
No,needher to.
It’s not logical. It’s not rational.
And I’m well aware that I’m lying to myself when I say that it’s situational.
