She dropped her hand, shaking her head. And suddenly the laughter came easier, rolling out of her in waves.
“Field medicine,” she gasped. “That’s the best he could come up with? What was he treating, his ego?”
“Yep. And he stuck to it. Even when she grounded us from our bikes for a month. Dalton swore she had the hides she flayed off us hanging in her closet.”
Now she was doubled over, Coke can rattling in her grip, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. And damn, if it wasn’t the best thing I’d ever seen.
I wasn’t done yet. I was like a starved man, and her laughter was my salvation. “Did I ever tell you about Dalton trying to impress a girl by jumping his dirt bike across a drainage ditch?”
Her eyes went wide. “Please tell me he didn’t.”
“Oh, he did. Swore he had it in the bag. We told him it was a bad idea, but you know Dalton. Stubborn as hell. Made it halfway, clipped the far edge, and bam.” I clapped my hands together. “Straight into the ditch. Broke his wrist clean through.”
She threw her head back, laughter echoing over the water. “Oh damn…Was she at least impressed?”
“Sure,” I deadpanned. “Impressed with how fast the ambulance showed up.”
She laughed so hard she nearly toppled over, catching herself on my arm. And my chest tightened, because I’d fight ten wars if it meant I could keep that sound alive.
I let her settle, then threw in the last round. “Diego once swore he’d wrestled a wild hog when we were all like ten.”
She was already smiling. “Oh, this has to be good.”
“Yeah. Claimed he pinned it down with his bare hands. Took us two days to figure out it wasn’t a hog at all. It was Mrs. Calder’s fat Labrador that had wandered out of her yard.”
Her laugh cracked sharp, and she smacked my shoulder. “No way!”
“Swear on my life. Dog just rolled over for belly scratches, and Diego strutted home like he’d bagged a prize boar.”
She was breathless now, cheeks pink, eyes shining in the moonlight.
“And me,” I added, leaning in like I was sharing state secrets, “I was the picture of innocence. Scout’s honor. If you don’t count all the times I instigated shit or let my temper get the best of me.”
Holly eyed me, gifting me with one of those rare smiles, before lying back in the grass and stretching with a sigh. She tucked her hands under her head and stared up at the night sky.
We sat there for a while. Eventually she rolled on her side, propped on one elbow, eyes still dancing. For once, she didn’tlook guarded. Didn’t look like she was waiting for the next blow to land.
That was when it hit me: I’d bleed my throat raw, talk myself hoarse, spin every dumb story from our past twice over if it meant keeping her like this—unguarded, easy, alive. Her laugh was my new favorite sound. Not engines, not cheers at a game, not even the hum of conversation at the clubhouse.
If all I got before I left again was this night by the river, her laughter tangled in the cicadas, I’d guard it like treasure.
Chapter Twenty-One
? Holly ?
Life didn’t exactly change overnight—but something in me had. I wasn’t ready to slap a label on whatever Jackson and I were dancing around. Not when the thought alone made my chest ache like I’d swallowed sunlight. But I kept finding myself near him. At the clubhouse after errands. On the back porch when he pretended to need a smoke break. Passing him a wrench in the garage even though I couldn’t tell a socket from a screwdriver.
It wasn’t that I’d planned it, more that some rhythm caught me and refused to let go. Hannah’s sharp laugh from the kitchen, the rumble of bikes out front, Jackson’s shoulder brushing mine when we leaned over the same pool table—it all knitted into a routine I hadn’t realized I craved. Just when I thought I had the beat down, Maria threw a series of curveballs.
The first curveball was beige and box-shaped, parked crooked in front of the clubhouse like it already knew it didn’t belong here.
“A minivan,” I announced, arms crossed, surveying the battered Chrysler like it had personally offended me. “You’re twenty-two, not fifty.”
Maria slammed the trunk shut with more force than strictly necessary. “It’s called practical, Holly. Look it up.”
“Practical?” I tapped the faded sticker on the bumper. “‘Baby on Board’? What’s next, church bake sales and soccer practice?”
She adjusted her sunglasses, smirking. “You think I can’t dominate a bake sale?”
