Chapter 11
Brexley
Tom Petty?
Broderick
Check.
Brexley
Peace offering?
Broderick
Philly rolls with extra wasabi.
Brexley
I’ll allow it.
Any idea when she’ll be back?
Broderick
Not a clue. But we reconvene at eight am, so I don’t imagine she’ll be out very late.
Brexley
Alright. I expect an update in the morning.
Broderick
*Saluting emoji.
I blew out a breath as Wildflowers started playing over my Bluetooth speaker. Petty had been a favorite growing up, but this song in particular always made me smile, because it made me think of Elora. Elora, who needed nothing as severely as she needed to feel free. She soaked up sun like a hibiscus and needed the wind on her skin and sand beneath her feet or she’d wilt within a month. She blended in with the city girls as well as the next woman, but her heart had always—and would always—call to the wilds of Alaska. She could toss a net or tie off the boat as well as any Mistyvale-born man and look adorable doing it.
Okay, the Philly rolls might have been slightly self-motivated, but it was one of the many things we’d always enjoyed together. Might remind her that under the ego, we were friends…usually. Sushi was one of the consistent delicacies on the island. Our little town was host to very few luxuries, all of which the mainlanders took for granted. But we were never short in the fish department—a fact that was entirely attributed to families like the Rhodes that kept our economy flowing.
Staring at the sushi tray, I popped the lid off only to clip it back into place. I waited…and waited. All the while, nerves burrowed into my gut. Gradually, I became Professor Pit-stain, which resulted in my stripping, showering, and applying an absurd amount of antiperspirant before returning to pacing the length of the room. Deciding I needed to tuck the peace offering safely away in the mini fridge where I couldn’t eat them all myself, I climbed into bed, reinforcing El’s pillow moat before flipping the music off and TV on. Normally, I’d pull up a favorite true crime series, but with reconciliation on my mind, I flipped it to How I Met Your Mother.
Peace offering number two.
This was fine. It would be fine. El and I always drove each other entirely crazy, but we were just as quick to hash it out and move on. Usually. Prom had made things weird. Last summer made them weirder.
Sushi was probably not even going to touch the level of discomfort I’d just created between us. Guilt and anxiety gut checked me like a linebacker, and I shifted uneasily, glancing to the door and wondering where she was. If she was okay. Anxiety wasn’t new to me—I think I was born with it. This compulsive need to check and recheck, to guess and second guess every minute detail of my life. Maybe it was a byproduct of two abnormally productive parents, but maybe it was just…me. Which meant that awful hollow burrowing sensation in my stomach was undeniably the beginning of a spiral. I should never have made her second guess herself. Should never have suggested that of the two of us, she should be the one to bow out.
It was those thoughts that were interrupted by the late-night electronic chirp of the lock followed by the heavy creek of the metal door. I was prepared for her to come in looking as uncomfortable as I felt, or even to burst into the room ready for round two. Instead, she didn’t even bother to glance my way, her hair mussed, headphones in her ears as she balanced a restaurant serving tray on her hand, a drink in the other as she gracefully spun into the room, bopping to music I couldn’t hear.
The nod she gave me seemed no more significant than a frat bro sup and, bewildered, I sat up to assess the firecracker now wordlessly settling into the little corner table where they’d stacked generic postcards and notebooks with hotel branded pens that no one had ever used even once in hotel guest history.
Looking content with herself, Pix scooted everything aside so that she could spread out her food. My eyes shot to the mini fridge, mouth making to form the words but falling short. El. Hey. How are you? I grabbed you a snack, although it appears you came prepared. I’m sorry for being a colossal shit sandwich. Something. Anything. Instead, a thick silence settled between us, awkwardly filling the space. Or…it was awkward to me, because El looked entirely at ease as she neatly lined out her dinner, headphones still playing some sort of symphony worth subtly swaying to.
Watching her slowly unclip the tacky plastic lid from a hot sauce container, I thought back to all the times we’d retreat from the chaos of the Rhodes house, just the two of us, hiding in the other’s silence. El could chatter just as much as the rest of them, but she had this inherent sense for when the insanity overwhelmed me, and I needed quiet. Something Jameson understood, but Rhyett had never comprehended. To him, the more the merrier. A dozen siblings, and he was always the first to invite extras in.
It had been her companionable silence in which I found my home. She scowled, the abrupt change in her expression pulling me from my reverie as she set her sauce ramekin down in favor of a brown napkin, which she promptly dabbed in water and took to her shirt, where red sauce had splattered. With a huff, she scooted back on the wheelie armchair, and slowly reached for the hem of her sweater, slipping slender fingers beneath the fabric before scraping it up and over her torso, revealing bare, tan skin and a form-fitting short camisole cropped above a belly button ring I sure as hell hadn’t ever seen before.
My swallow ached right along with my jaw as I clenched it, sending my gaze skyward. Taxation is theft. The government is corrupt. Morality is a matter of perspective. Polar bears are starving. Jameson would beat me to death if he knew I just got hard watching his baby sister take her sweater off to prevent a stain.
Seriously—what the hell was wrong with me?
Replaying Brexley’s words in my mind, I blew out what I hoped was a calming breath, sliding free from bed and wandering over to the fridge, attempting to channel an inner nonchalance that hadn’t existed since the siren in front of me hit puberty.
She paused her stain dabbing to glance my way as I knelt and retrieved the sushi container. I set it on the table beside her plethora of options, nudging it toward her as she held my gaze. Those Rhodes blues narrowed slightly as she gingerly plucked an ear bud out.
“That a peace offering?” she questioned dryly, surveying the little carton. I smirked at her wording, knowing full well that’s exactly what this was. She seemed to finally notice what was playing on the television as well, her eyes flying to the side of the room as she removed the second headphone.
“That depends… Is it working?”
One dark brow arched as her gaze flicked back down to the sushi. The presentation wasn’t Michelin-star by any means, but it wasn’t exactly convenience store quality either. Drizzled in some kind of house-special aioli, they hadn’t held back and delivered it with an abundance of soy sauce, pickled ginger, and wasabi. Good. At least one thing in my favor.
Eyes narrowed in accusation, she gingerly pressed her own box closed, grabbing the chop sticks, and snapping them apart in one only semi-aggressive motion. She twirled them between her fingers before plucking up a piece and popping it between her lips in one bite, chewing slowly as she eyed me. Holding her gaze should have won me an award. Seriously, Medusa could take notes. But I saw the flicker of satisfaction as the flavors finally hit her tongue. Saw the memories spark in her eyes, like I knew they would, because some invisible wall seemed to dissolve within them.
“Maybe,” she begrudgingly admitted around her mouthful of rice and smoked salmon. “Depends on what follows up the cream cheese and seaweed.”
“I’m sorry,” I blurted out gruffly, irritated with myself all over again. “I didn’t mean it. Not the way it came out. That was a dick move, and we both know it.”
“Continue,” she prompted, pinching another piece with her chopsticks before poking them toward me.
“I’m not an imbecile, El. I’ve seen how hard you’ve worked. So have your older siblings—none of them would ever insinuate your success was anything other than earned.” I dipped my head to capture her gaze. “That was super shitty. And…I’m sorry.”
Her eyes widened incrementally before she jerked them to her food, throat working around a swallow. “Good sushi,” she said softly, scooting her prior meal aside in favor of the carton. That had to be a good sign, right—a kind of acceptance? Was that hoping for too much, too quickly? Smiling, I took the chair beside her and snatched up the second pair of chopsticks, cracking them apart and swooping in for a piece, smirking when she slid the box away from me, eyes wide beneath arched brows as the corners of her lips twitched. The expression spelled out her sentiment exactly—excuse me?
Fighting a smile, I reached forward again, only for her to slide it farther away, her eyes narrowing to slits, a hand poised to slap mine away as she said, “Thin ice, Professor. Thin. Ice.”
Chuckling darkly, I gingerly placed the chopsticks on a napkin between us before raising my hands in surrender. She smiled as she returned the tray to the center of the table, and I put a safe amount of space between me and the evidently off-limits peace offering.
“So,” she said around the next mouthful. “What’s your strategy for presentations tomorrow?”
“Really think we should hash out battle strategy together?” I countered, my chair creaking as I slowly rocked in it to dispel some of the extra energy seeping from my body.
“Like I would bother to adjust mine the night before. I’ve had this thing planned down to the second for weeks.”
Holding her stare, I thought long and hard before saying, “Mine is highly statistic motivated. For our population size, we have an unacceptable number of young people with criminal records. That’s my angle.”
Nodding, chopsticks pointed my direction as though demanding an answer, she said, “Kind of like a Big Brothers, Big Sisters idea?”
“Kind of,” I allowed, leaning down to fish a sparkling water out of the mini fridge. Cracking the lid off the glass bottle, I said, “I want to make sure we have the funding to bring on tutors and keep a good ratio between kids and counselors. Nutrient-dense food, so the kids who don’t go home to hot meals have somewhere they can drop in and fill their bellies with more than vending machine food.”
A furrow implanted between her brows, and she ran her tongue over her front teeth as she created a wasabi-soy sauce mix in the tray. Stirring the concoction with her chopsticks, she admitted, “It’s a noble cause, Brod.”
“So is the school,” I pointed out quietly. Those steel blues lanced me to my chair as she twirled her next bite in her wasabi sauce concoction that made my sinuses burn just looking at it. I could do with a little bit here and there, but she really soaked it on there. Evaluation evidently over, she nodded. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way, right?”
“Absolutely.” A delicate, one shoulder shrug.
“There will be other opportunities for funding for whoever doesn’t get it.”
“What is meant for us, will find us,” she recited like a reflex. I smirked, the words an old familiar echo of so many days past. Pix was nothing, if not consistent.
“You’ve said that for years,” I pointed out.
“I still believe it,” she shot back without bothering to shift her focus off the next bite. I watched as she popped the piece into her pretty little mouth, tracking a drop of sauce that fell from the corner. Thumbing it away, my fingers hesitated for one beat longer than appropriate before I realized I was still touching her.
Clearing my throat, I pulled my hand away from her now sauce-less lips. Before I could stand—which, honest to God, was my intention—she scooted the tray my way with the last Philadelphia roll still intact. She set her chopsticks down pointedly.
“Apology accepted,” she whispered, quickly snatching her Mexican food off the table and tucking it into the fridge below our desk. “Thanks for dinner. I’m going to jump in the shower.”
We both rose so abruptly that we nearly collided. Her face was an inch away from my chest, mouth popping open and eyes rounding as they slowly tracked up to mine.
“Sorry, I’ll just, uh—” Her words trailed off as she stepped to one side just as I did. Wincing, I made to move back, but we were like a couple of magnets, synchronized in our abysmal attempt to disengage. “Sorry, I can—” Again, her thought cut off, but this time we bumped into each other. Chuckling awkwardly, I clamped my hands down on her shoulders, holding her steady while I untangled my legs from the spokes of our chairs, stepping aside to grant her space to vacate as well. My heart was hammering faster than a nail gun on a new construction Coast Guard house Friday night at a quarter to five.
Her nervous, breathy exhale hit my chest, warming the skin through the fabric of my shirt a beat before she dropped her gaze to our feet, then nodded and turned for the bed, where her suitcase lay open. She hurriedly gathered clothes, but I was too busy staring skyward and blowing out a slow, pained breath to inventory what she escaped to the bathroom with.
Cursing internally, I slid my phone from my pocket as it buzzed.
Brexley
The suspense is killing me, Allen. Update?
Broderick
Could’ve gone better.
Brexley
Could’ve gone worse?
Broderick
I guess?
Brexley
Continue as planned. One step at a time.
Broderick
*Saluting emoji*
Tossingthe phone onto the murder sofa as a frantic rodent burrowed in my gut, I reluctantly retreated to the bed, hoping I’d fall asleep before El made it out of the shower.
Elora
I am Elora Motherfucking Rhodes. So, what if he apologized so sincerely, equipped with a perfectly thoughtful little peace offering? Max, Alice, Mara, and I had a plan. And, at thirty-two, I was years past being easily manipulated by that stupidly perfect mug of his, or the equally stupidly gorgeous smile he wore when he was nervous. Deep brown sad puppy dog eyes or not. No man had a right to look so sexy while also pitifully apologetic. It wasn’t legal.
Blowing out air like a leaky balloon, I looked over my reflection one last time, giving my hair another scrunch and missing how easily the curls came out to play when it was shorter. The romper was blush and silky, the black lace hitting the top of my thighs. Bright and airy, it was perfect for Nevada heat—when I wasn’t crashing with my older brothers’ best friend. This was…conservative, really. I usually preferred much less clothing, for fear of waking up with the sensation of strangulation. Or that’s what I was convincing myself as I straightened the spaghetti straps at the edge of my shoulder. A deep V-neck traced against the tan skin of my chest, which now shimmered lightly after applying the tinted lotion. I cocked my head, lifting my boobs and wishing they were twenty-one-year-old perky instead of early thirties meh, but they’d have to do. A bra would defeat the purpose of the silk.
Geez, Max was diabolical. I kinda loved that about him. Smiling over the mouthful of nerves threatening to choke me before I even made it out of the glamorously tacky en-suite, I snatched up my discarded clothes, tucking them beneath an elbow before grabbing the towel. I whirled for the bedroom. Casually scrunching the towel in the ends of my hair, mostly for something to do with my hands, I made a beeline for my suitcase at the foot of the bed. Tucking them into the dirty bag, I prayed I looked casual as the metallic teeth of the zipper purred, and I moved it to the desk where we’d just been.
I could feel him watching me, like a heat across the back of my neck. Some fucked up kind of satisfaction wound through me then, curiosity begging the question; ‘is Max right’?
When I turned back for the bed, his full lips were parted, eyes half-hooded as they unabashedly trailed up my very bare legs. Sweet baby Jesus in a manger. Was it hot in here? 120-degree-Arizona sunshine-hot? My heart hammered, a nervous sweat pricking at my low back and suddenly tingling palms. Quirking a brow, I closed the distance as he snapped his gaze to my face before clearing his throat and muttering the tightest goodnight mankind had ever heard.
Broderick turned into the cutest six-foot blanket burrito in history, his back to the pillow moat—and me—as I slid beneath the covers. With one last fortifying breath, I grabbed the pillows from the center of the bed, tucking one between my legs and the other against my chest, strangled by anxious arms as I turned my back to his, and unsuccessfully attempted to find sleep.