My best friend doesn’t hesitate to join me. She folds down beside me, straightening her legs and smoothing out the lines of her silk skirt. “You don’t think ... I’m sorry if it seemed like I was meddling or prying, I just—”
“No, I don’t really think that.” I open my palm for hers. “I’m lucky to have someone who cares so much about my survival.”
Her skin meets mine, but instead of sliding our fingers together, she brings my hand between both of hers. “I don’t wantyou to survive anymore, Ren. I’d rather you really live.” Imani smiles, watery, before she tips her chin towards the ceiling. “Do you think this is what they saw before the asteroid hit?”
“Industrial beams and specialized LED lighting that looks like it could use a dusting?” I laugh, tipping my chin up, too. “I hope not.”
“Me either.” She snorts. “But I think I hope, even more, that none of them were alone.”
“Me too,” I murmur, and all I can think of is how maybe this new me, with all these reasons to be who she is and always has been, doesn’t really want to be alone either.
Miller
She’s almost shy the entire two-and-a-half-hour drive to the cottage.
I don’t pick her up in a stupid car this time. I pick her up in an old 4Runner that Matty and I used to share in high school. He kept it—said they came back around and were cool again.
She runs a hand along the tan leather and wood adornments on the dash, mouth lifting at the side when she whispers, “Practical,” and settles back into the worn leather seat.
She talks, but less than usual, and I think, more than once, I catch her glancing sideways at me, blue eyes caught on the corner of my mouth before she stares back at the road, hands shoved firmly under her thighs.
She bounces those a lot, actually. The frays dangling off the hem of her denim shorts sway against the smooth skin of her legs, and she knocks her knees together.
We’ve texted a bit over the last week—just the usual. Pictures of Victor in the dugout, pictures of the new exhibit coming together. Her and Imani at some college sports bar, watchingthe game and celebrating her finishing an interview for that job. Wanted to die, when I saw that one come in.
Nothing about that almost kiss that fucked up my entire life in the best and worst ways.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d think, maybe, she was as nervous as I am to spend three days together, just us, my thoughts about her, and whatever it is she does to my heart for company.
And I imagine what Matty might say if he was here. The way he’d have given her the front seat, the way Ren would have had something teasing to say about our shared chivalry—they’d get along, I think—but he’d catch my eye in the rearview, he’d grab my shoulders, give them a little shake and whisper, not at all that quietly, that I should give it a chance. She might like me after all, I’m not that bad.
She’s more herself when I pull into the stretching driveway, gravel crunching under the tires and the heavy branches, laden down with bright green summer leaves, whispering over the roof, and when I turn the last corner, the cottage comes into view. Nestled into the top of the hill, stretching down the slope towards the water, the oak siding shines, and the wraparound, floor-to-ceiling windows wink in the sun.
She hops out of the car, interlacing her fingers and stretching her arms over her head as she tips from side to side.
I stare pointedly at the gravel, so I don’t see the glimpse of skin when her top shifts away from the waist of her denim shorts.
She whistles, smacking my shoulder when we walk inside, whispering, “I knew I made the right choice when picking a father for Victor.”
My heart kicks up with the side of my mouth. “He’ll be well taken care of, yeah.”
I’d take care of you too,I think.The way you took care of me. If you’d let me.
“I knew it would be nice, but I didn’t think—” She tosses me exaggerated wide eyes over her shoulder, but they catch in the afternoon sunlight and turn into another colour I’ve never seen, and I think my knees might give out.
Ren gestures around, tipping her chin up to the vaulted ceiling, and I think I can see her pulse flitting beneath her skin along the side of her neck. My hand twitches at my side. I think I’d like to drag my thumb across it, probably the closest I’d ever come to actually feeling what it might be like to hold Ren Jacobs’s heart.
She turns back to me with a shake of her head, sending red-wine hair tumbling down her shoulders. “Good use of that hard-earned money.”
“I, uh, don’t work that hard.”
She gives me a flat look. “How many games do you play in a season?”
“A lot,” I answer lamely.
“Imani tells me shortstops typically report to spring training in March, too. So, you work, what? Almost six or seven months straight with minimal days off?” She wrinkles her nose. The strap of her tank top slips down the skin of her shoulder and she lifts it. “More than most people.”
“Yeah, well—” I tug at the brim of my hat. “Most people would still say I’m grossly overpaid.”
