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Forget turning out like my dad, a measly professional athlete. Or my mother, a mere award-winning songwriter.
“Fuck the laws of physics and fuck you.”
“Fine. I’ll play along. What am I settling?” Shane slides his hands in the rear pockets of his jeans and rocks back on his heels. “Which pickup line you would respond better to.” “You’re practicing pickup lines? Classy.” “We’re not practicing. We’re trying to determine which one of us is right. Spoiler alert: it’s me.” “I kind of have a feeling you’re both wrong,” I say helpfully.
“Also,” he continues, cutting off a piece of the pecan pie with his fork, “before you get involved with any dude, make sure he’s not the slut of the group. And if he is, get him tested. Because there’s always one slutty boy in every crew.”
Dean as an adult is even more unhinged somehow
“If I saw seven owls in one day, I’d be packing up the car and driving to Mexico.”
Beckett follows my gaze. “Wanna dance?” “Nah, I’m good.” “Thank God. I hate dancing.” I can’t help but laugh. “Then why’d you ask?” “Seemed like the less sleazy way of saying I want your body pressed up against mine.”
“When you said you weren’t interested… It was opposite day. Got it.”
The details are vague, but then again, Jensen cosigned the email, and he has a vendetta against words, so…
“You were totally smiling.” “You’re just imagining things.” He skates off to grab his water bottle, but not before I hear him chuckle. “And you laughed!” I cry in delight, gliding after him. “I’m telling everyone.” “Go ahead. No one will believe you.”
“Breathing is confusing sometimes.”
Shane takes pity on him. “It’s okay. You’re really handsome.” He doesn’t realize he’s being insulted until after Shane has already gone back to texting his cheerleader. “Wait. Fuck you,” Patrick growls.
“You don’t owe people your forgiveness.” “You forgive for yourself, not for them.” She sounds distraught now. “That’s why it upsets me. What does it say about me that I’m perfectly okay holding on to the hatred?”
Once everyone is suited up, Coach Jensen comes in for his first pep talk of the season. “Go out there and deliver.” He nods, then turns toward the door. “Wait, that’s it?” Patrick blurts out. Jensen turns around. “What? What else do you want? Do you want me to do a little dance for you?” “I, personally, would love that,” Tristan Yoo says.
“Man, you really hate talking.” “Thank you for noticing.” “Sweetie. That wasn’t a compliment. You know who else doesn’t talk? Serial killers.” “I disagree… Seems like a lot of those crazy fuckers love to hear themselves talk.”
“The butterflies need the warmth to fly. Do you not want them to fly, Ryder? When did this vendetta against butterflies begin?” “At a very young age,” he says solemnly.
I’m half expecting an ambush from them where they show us their wedding video and possibly home videos from their joint childhood.
“With that said, a point was raised that someone who does do this on university grounds might not possess the proper impulse control and perhaps there might be a deeper issue here, so, and I’m not going to name names here—Lindley,” he says pointedly.
“Let’s do shots. I too am bored of his problems.”
After a beat of reluctance, I sit down, sigh, and proceed to give her a quick rundown of my fight with Gigi. Leaving out names, locations, and any pertinent details that might be used against me in a court of law.
The suspicion that tickles at my brain is confirmed when Owen lifts a brow and says, “How long have you been dating my brother?”
“I love you.” Her breath hitches. I’ve never said those words before. But I mean them with every fiber of my being. She’s the one. She’s the only one. “Say it again.” “I love you, Gigi.” A brilliant smile fills her face. “I love you too, Luke.” That does something to me. The name I’ve loathed for so long, the name I’ve recoiled from, leaving her lips. Hearing it now, coming from that sweet voice and gorgeous face, accompanied by those three words, well, I guess I don’t mind being Luke. I’ll be whoever she wants me to be.
“You should be prepared,” Owen eventually says, glancing over to grin at me. “For what?” “You’re gonna marry that girl.”
That hard exterior hides the kind of man I’m honored to be with. A man I trust enough to show every ounce of vulnerability to. A man who hears me when I gently point out a flaw and tries to alter his behavior. A man who makes me desperately happy even when I’m feeling sad.
“Always. You fall, I pick you up. Always.”
Now you know how it feels to be around a prickly asshole who doesn’t want to make conversation with you.”
We got married.”
Before I can stop her, Gigi’s mom pulls me in for a tight hug and now I’m crying in her arms like a little kid.
Wow. Apparently you can’t have philosophical conversations with butterflies in front of children anymore. People are so close-minded.
And ironically, it’s not my reaction he needs to worry about. He just called me immature and graceless in front of my asshole husband, my asshole brother, and my asshole father. That’s bad enough. But it’s the mama bear he triggered.
