“The happiest,” she sings, springing up from the grass.
Boone groans at the thought of moving that quickly after playing two hard games today, and I relate to the pain on a cellular level. He pushes from the grass, and Kaia yelps, running away from him, and their laughter fills the quiet night. I roll back into the grass and stare up at thepitch black sky for a second as I try to recenter myself. Despite how much I had protested the night before, it had turned out pretty fun. It’s been a while since I’d actually been out of the house.
“At least they'll sleep well.” Rhea laughs at the two of them playing like little kids as she walks over to me and offers me her hand to pull me from the grass. She watches Boone catch up to Kaia and haul her over his shoulder. When she looks back at me, she offers me a tired smile that turns into a yawn.
“Do you need a ride home?” she asks after a minute.
“Yeah, actually. Boone brought me and…” I get distracted by the paint smudge streaked across the top of her breast, staining her sports bra.
“What?” She clocks me staring instantly and panics, looking down at herself. She starts to laugh wildly at the sight of it and shrugs, “You’re not exactly clean yourself, Terminator.”
I look down at myself and see what she means. The paint from her body is smeared all over my jersey, shorts, and skin, all transferred from her body when we collided. It takes me a second to register: she didn’t say my name.
“I hate that nickname,” I groan, caught off guard—then a huff that’s almost a laugh escapes me.
“Oh.” She turns red from embarrassment, and her voice gets really low and slow as she says it. I realize that she looks scolded by the comment, and that’s not how I meant it, because honestly, Rhea can call me whatever she wants as long as she says it like that.
I scowl at myself, and she catches the expression, only furthering the sad look on her face.Fuck.I force a tiny smile, and she just shakes her head as we make our way over to her car. She jogs over and grabs her keys from the passenger seat of Kaia’s Impala and rejoins me awkwardly standing with my bag waiting, then heads for a vintage, shiny black Bronco that stops me short.
“Is that a ‘69?” I ask her, pointing to the vehicle, and she nods, her brows furrowing at my surprise.
“It sits in the Hollow parking lot. How have you not noticed it?” She says, popping the window on the bed so I can throw my bag in the back.
I walk around her and open the driver's door, staring at her over the door as she comes to the other side with a smile. “I don’t actually go out back,” I admit. “I park my truck down the street where it’s free.”
“Of course you do,” she says with a small smile. I close the door and wander around to the passenger side. “You own the building.” She questions.
“I don’t own the parking lot,” I argue.
The second I open the door, the smell of girl, art supplies, and sweaty gym gear hits my nose, and I look over the top of the Bronco at her. “What the hell?” I look inside at the absolute mess of the interior. The back is completely piled with her belongings and school stuff, and there are so many shaker cups and energy drink cans on the floor, I can’t even tell what color the floor is.
“How old are you?” I grumble.
“Twenty-nine,” she says, her tone confused.
“Not seriously—never mind. This is disgusting,” I say to her, kicking a spot free for my feet as I climb in. “You’re disgusting,” I mutter as she starts the engine.
By the time we get home, it’s already five am, and I can already tell that Rhea is hungry because she beelines up for the fridge.
“Don’t,” I say to her as she reaches for the handle.
“Why not? I’m starving,” she whines.
“You’re covered in paint. Do not touch anything but the shower faucet,” I say, pushing off my cleats and dropping my duffel bag. “And clean that when you're done,” I warn her. She looks down at herself and shrugs, slinking off to the bathroom. While she’s in there, Daisy emerges from her room, sleepy and bleary-eyed.
“Morning…” she yawns. Of all the things she got from her mother, being a morning person wasn’t one of them. That she got from me.
“You hungry?” I ask her as she eyes the paint that stains my uniform.
“Yeah,” she leaves a headphone out as she slides onto the stool and rests her head in her arms to watch me. “Where were you?” she asks.
“Your uncle had a rugby thing,” I try to lie.
“He made a bet with Auntie K again, didn’t he?” She smiles at me, and I can see her mother so clearly in the expression.
“Mmm,” I hum and nod, throwing a pan on the stove before grabbing the bacon from the fridge. I get everything going and trade places with Rhea as she scurries back to her room to get dressed. The rising sun shines through the small bathroom window, illuminating the water droplets she left behind. And the paint, so much paint. I sigh with an annoyed smile and wipe the floor, clean the counter, and shower before taking the time to clean myself off.
When I return—wet hair, clean skin—Rhea is sitting on the recliner that faces the kitchen with Daisy between her thighs on the floor. Her fingers brush through Daisy’s hair with such ease as she carefully and intricately braids it back off her face into a single, tight line.
