Normal.
It all just feels so normal. Not Everett normal. Real-people normal.
He finally stops on the curb in front of a light-blue house. There’s a little yellow yard flag with flowers on it, waving in the wind, and a basketball hoop in the driveway.
“Well,” she says, reaching for her bag, but to her surprise, I pull on the handle and get out of the car, jogging around to open her door again. “You don’t have to keep doing that.”
I smile as I help her out.
“I know,” I say, and as her feet plant on the ground in front of us and we are standing just centimeters apart, I lean down, “but I want to.” She swallows just as the front screen door bursts open. We both turn around to the tornado of a kid who is making a beeline for us.
“Wrenny!” he says as he jumps on her. She laughs and squeezes him, although he’s almost as tall as her. She sets him down and ruffles his shaggy raven hair.
“Hey, dude,” she says with a smile. He turns to me, and I stick out my hand.
“So this must be the biggest Empire fan in the world?” I ask him. He nods and shakes my hand with a smile.
“Yeah,” he chuckles. “I’m Cole.”
“Hey, Cole,” I say. “I’m Brooks. Nice to meet you.”
He looks at me, then to his sister, then back to me.
“Are you her driver?” he asks. I bust out laughing, and so does she as she slides a hand down her face.
“No, no, Cole,” she says. “Brooks is just my friend. He was, uh…coming out to Jersey anyway, so he offered to give me a ride.”
Our eyes meet for a brief second.
Friend, huh?
I pull my phone out of my pocket.
“Who’s your favorite player?” I ask, knowing that there is a 98% chance I already know the answer. Jerome Parker was the Super Bowl MVP last year and has his own line of shoes, among about a thousand other brand deals. He also happens to be one of my best friends.
“Jerome Parker,” he says, pulling up his sweatshirt to show me his jersey. I smile and nod, then scroll through my phone.
“Does this guy look familiar?” I ask, showing him a photo of Jerome and me last year on my yacht. His little jaw drops as he stares at it.
“Whoa! You know Jerome?” he asks. I smile as I flick through some other photos of us.
“I do,” I say. “He’s a good friend of mine.”
“Do you see this, Wren? HeknowsJerome!” he says. She smiles and nods, seemingly not as impressed as her kid brother.
“I see,” she says. “That’s pretty cool, huh?”
“I’ll tell him you said hi next time we talk, how about that?” I say. He nods enthusiastically, and I reach out to shake his handagain. “Alright, guys. I’m gonna head back to the city, but have a great time at the game.”
They smile and nod, and I notice that, as I smile at her, her eyes linger on me a little longer as I get back in the car.
WREN
The whole time I’m at the game, I can’t stop thinking about him. I can’t stop thinking about the way he asks questions. About how he’s got a little saltiness mixed with his sweet, which pulls me in even more.
I think I have a crush on the trouble-maker Everett brother.
Shit.
