“Mags … come on.”
She doesn’t budge, I take the two paces toward her bed and sit on the edge of it. Her mattress dips with my weight, and I can see her head wanting to tilt toward me, but her stubbornness holds tight.
“You gotta let me see. You know I’ll tell you the truth.” I’ve never lied to her, and I don’t plan to start now.
She sighs heavily, a hand coming up to swipe under her eyes. Ever so slowly, she sits up, wiping her face dry once again before turning to face me, spinning so her legs are tucked under her on the bed.
One of the straps on her tank top slips off her shoulder, and I force my eyes to the ceiling as she adjusts it. Even though Magnolia has been my best friend since I was nine years old … I've started to notice her more lately.
I notice her long legs, her smile, the way she can always get me to tell her what’s wrong. I notice how good she smells when she leans over me to work on a project. And worse than that, I notice the churn in my gut when another guy makes her laugh.
So when she sits up and there’s a little cleavage falling from her tank top, I force my eyes away, giving her time to adjust herself. On the count of ten, I look back at her. Her eyes are red and blotchy, but her face is as pretty as ever, smiling at me with closed lips.
“Hi,” I say again now that she’s looking at me.
She nods, and then bites down to temper her smile the more I stare. I reach over to grab her forearm, wiggling it once. “Come on, it isn’t that bad.”
She raises a hand to cover her mouth when she talks. “Promise you won’t laugh.”
“You know I’d never make fun of you, Mags.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I smile at that, huffing out a sigh as I prop my hands on my hips. “I promise, I won’t laugh.”
She drops her hand to her lap, but her lips stay closed. She reaches behind her for a throw pillow, and runs the white lacey edge through her fingers, eyes focused on the movement.
Reaching a hand out, I curl my finger under her chin, and tip her face up so our eyes lock. “It’s me, Mags.”
A soft breeze flows through her bedside window, and the wind moves her silky blonde hair across her cheek. I let go of her chin to brush the hair back, lingering just for a second by her ear before nerves get the best of me, and I pull my hand back, tucking the both of them in my lap.
“Okay,” she says softly, and my head whips up to face her. She pushes out a deep breath through her nose, and then smiles, a wide, toothy smile.
Perfectly showing off her new braces.
Her mouth is full of metal, and it sure looks painful. But in true Magnolia fashion, she has pink bands wrapped around some of the little silver squares, and honestly, she’s still a knockout.
I let myself look another second before shrugging, moving to stand. “I think you look great. Now, can we get going? I want you to practice with me before I have to go home for dinner.”
She scoffs, pushing her throw pillow off her lap and coming to stand next to me. I’ll be fifteen in a few months, and I’ve started to hit my growth spurt. I’m not as tall as my older twin brothers, Theo and Grayson, but I’m already pushing close to six feet. My mom is convinced I’ll keep growing since I’m hungry all the time.
Magnolia is tall for a girl, with a lean, toned body from years of ballet. When she stands in front of me with her cute little nose all scrunched up and her hands on her hips, she still has to tilt her head up to face me. “Lukas William Hart, that’s all you have to say?”
I shrug. “That’s all I have to say. Looks like you have braces, otherwise, you’re the same old Mags. Still stinky.” I playfully elbow her before reaching to grab another cookie from the dresser.
“Don’t you think I’m ugly?” Her voice is soft and shaky. I balk, turning back to face her.
“You? Ugly? Mags, you’re the prettiest girl in the entire school.” I pretend to be looking at the photos of our group of friends hanging from her side mirror, begging my cheeks not to flush too badly. “You’re the prettiest girl in all of Copper Ridge, probably the Midwest. You should know that by now.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see when her hands fall from her hips. She straightens the hem of her tank top, her left foot coming up, toes en pointe, and I recognize it as a nervous habit. “You think I’m pretty?”
I turn back to her, the cookie suddenly too thick to swallow. “Yeah,” I croak out.
“Prettier than Sally Anderson?”
It’s my turn to scoff. “Sally Anderson looks like a worm, and acts just as bad. You’re way prettier than her.”
“All the boys like her.”
