Chapter Fourteen #2
Cash is training me for a marathon.” He’d put together a detailed training regimen and everything. “Not that that’s a skill, really.”
And not that she was particularly good at it.
But she woke up at the ass crack of dawn and ran however many miles Cash told her to and then she did it again the next morning and the next after that.
She might not be fast, and her form might not be pretty, but she was dedicated and that counted for something.
“A marathon,” Rosaline repeated, nose scrunching adorably. “Wow, your masochistic tendencies run deeper than I realized.”
Poppy choked, soda spilling down her chin, droplets dotting the counter. Rosaline cackled and she glared. “I am not a masochist.”
“No, you just like beating yourself up for things that aren’t your fault.” Rosaline stretched across the counter and grabbed
a napkin. Rather than hand it over, she dabbed at Poppy’s chin, cleaning the cherry vanilla soda off her face. “Why a marathon?”
Poppy puffed out her cheeks. “It’s kind of a long story.”
Inadvertently, she’d steered them toward another none-too-breezy topic.
Rosaline made a big production of looking around the kitchen. “Does it look like I have somewhere to be,” she said, tapping
her phone, checking the time, “at eleven twenty-seven at night?”
Poppy picked at her sandwich one-handed and gnawed on her lip. “It was Cash’s idea. I guess studies show running reduces stress
and improves your mood.” She shrugged. “Helps your mental health. And um, last year, I sort of needed all the help I could
get with that.”
The marathon training and the cooking lessons had both been part of Cash’s holistic Get Poppy Better plan. In addition to therapy, obviously, but beyond driving her to her appointments and lending her an ear, Cash wasn’t qualified
to help her there.
“You’re right,” Rosaline said, fingers dancing across Poppy’s palm. “That was a long story.”
A snort escaped her. “You think you’re hilarious, don’t you?”
“I don’t think,” Rosaline said loftily before her whole face softened and she squeezed Poppy’s hand. “So it’s working then? The running?”
“It’s either that or the Lexapro,” she joked. “It’s not a silver bullet or anything like that—I know better than to believe
those exist. But I like it. Well, actually, I hate it while I’m doing it, and sometimes I desperately want to quit, but it
does make me feel better afterward. And it’s nice to have a goal, something to push myself toward.”
“Twenty-six point two miles.” Rosaline whistled, nudging Poppy with her knee. “That’s kind of badass, Peterson.”
Poppy laughed, face warming pleasantly under the praise. “It’s running. People have been doing it since the dawn of time.”
Rosaline reached out and flicked her between the eyes.
“Hey!” Poppy laughed and rubbed her forehead. “What the fuck was that?”
“Your inability to take a compliment outside of sex is vexing. Stop it.”
She laughed harder. “Oh, well if it’s vexing.”
Rosaline gave her a flat glare. “It’s annoying as fuck. I don’t like it.”
“You’re not exactly great at taking a compliment, either, you know.”
“Well, I guess it’s a good thing we’re not talking about me then, isn’t it?” Rosaline smirked. “So, tell me—when you aren’t
corralling Curran or training for your marathon, both of which I find admirable in their own right, what does Poppy Peterson
like to do in her free time? Any other masochistic hobbies I should know about? Self-flagellation, maybe?”
“Hm,” she pretended to think about it. “Does being a Mariners’ fan count as self-flagellation?”
Rosaline laughed. “Yes.”
“Nah, I’m kidding. Well, not about the Mariners, unfortunately. I am a fan. But as far as other hobbies go? Football, I guess?
Watching, not playing. Obviously.”
“I don’t know,” Rosaline teased. “Fifty bucks says your tackle’s going to be an ESPN top play of the week.”
Poppy shut her eyes and groaned. “Ugh, that means my dad is going to see it.”
And he’d tell her mom and she’d definitely have something to say about Poppy’s red-carpet throw down.
“It’ll blow over,” Rosaline assured her, which was nice and all, but she didn’t know Charlotte Peterson. Issues didn’t blow
over in the Peterson household as much as they were either swiftly swept under the rug and never talked about again, or they
were constantly dredged up. Over and over and over again, never allowed to be forgotten or left in the past. There was no
in-between.
“Here’s to hoping,” Poppy said wryly. “What about you?”
Rosaline’s brows rose. “What about me?”
“Talents, skills, hobbies, etcetera?” She nudged her plate aside and rested her chin on the heel of her hand. “Aside from
making a mean PB&J.”
Rosaline stuck out her tongue and shrugged. “Does having a burner account to live tweet Love Island count as having a hobby?”
“Um, yes. And I’m going to need your handle ASAP.”
“I don’t know.” Rosaline’s voice turned teasing. “That’s privileged information.”
Poppy jutted out her lower lip, making Rosaline laugh.
“I don’t actually tweet that often. It’s really just my weird way of staying in touch with my sister Bianca. We don’t have
much in common except for, as it turns out, a weakness for trashy reality TV.”
“Bianca’s the tattoo artist, right?” Poppy ghosted her fingers over a curl of ink at Rosaline’s wrist, black lines crisp and clean with minimal bleeding. It was beautiful work. “Did she do this?”
Rosaline nodded. “Most of my tattoos are courtesy of Bianca. Back when she was an apprentice, she needed help building her
portfolio, and unlike our sister Helen, who’s very vocal in her refusal to get a tattoo because she believes it would be akin
to putting a bumper sticker on a Ferrari, I already had several and was more than happy to help.”
“Did you give her free rein on the design or . . . ?”
Her lips twisted. “Much to the immense disappointment of my parents, there isn’t an artistic bone in my body. I just told
her what flowers I wanted and let her run with it.” She pointed at the flora, blossoms and vines, a never-wilting, never-dying,
unchanging bouquet upon her skin. “Hellebore. Clematis. Dogwood. Delphinium. Ivy.” Rosaline’s fingers rested just above the
crook of her left elbow and an almost shy smile graced her lips. “Poppies.”
Something inside her chest fluttered riotously. “They’re beautiful.”
Poppy didn’t believe in fate, knew that the fact Rosaline had her namesake—nick-namesake—tattooed on her body was nothing more than a coincidence, that plenty of people had poppy tattoos. They symbolized
everything from peace to eternal life to remembrance, beauty and success, death and sleep, messages delivered in dreams. It
still put a warm spot behind her breastbone and an ache between her ribs, a foreign yearning that, if she weren’t careful,
could blossom into something too big for her to contain.
Rosaline’s smile grew and her hands rose to cup Poppy’s face. “I think so.”
Her lips were soft, and she tasted like raspberry jelly, sweet and tart.
Poppy pressed closer and grabbed the front of Rosaline’s shirt, dragging her as close as the space between the barstools would allow, smiling into the kiss when Rosaline let out a tiny gasp of surprise against her mouth.
Now that she’d gotten a taste of Rosaline, she wasn’t sure how she was supposed to ever stop.
The prospect of boarding a plane back to Portland in the morning put an unsettled pit of anxiety in her stomach rivaled only by the disquiet she felt when she thought about the inevitable day Rosaline would get tired of her, their pseudo-relationship having run its course.
On the counter, Rosaline’s phone vibrated, pinging once, twice, three times. With a reluctant groan, she pulled away, pecking
Poppy on the mouth before reaching for it. Her eyes flitted across the screen, her expression pinched.
Poppy shifted anxiously on the barstool. “Is everything okay?”
“Other than the fact that Curran is apparently in possession of my phone number?” She arched a brow as her phone pinged again.
“Everything’s fine.”
“Cash is texting you?” She frowned. “Why is he texting you and not me?”
“He said he did and you’re not answering.”
Right, her phone was still tucked away inside her clutch, which she’d left in the foyer. “Well, it’s almost midnight.” And
Poppy had been busy.
Rosaline snorted, shaking her head softly. Her phone sounded like a slot machine with the way it kept going off in her hand.
“They may have skipped the after-parties, but I don’t think they skipped the booze.” A strange look suddenly flickered across
her face, her mouth slightly dropping open. She lifted her head and met Poppy’s gaze, the look in her eyes inscrutable. “Um,
here. See for yourself.”
With no small amount of trepidation, Poppy took Rosaline’s phone.
Cash (11:43 p.m.): ROSALINe! Tell potpart to pick up her phone
Cash (11:43 p.m.): Poptart
Cash (11:43 p.m.): I gotta talk to her
Cash (11:43 p.m.): It’s important
Cash (11:44 p.m.): ?? you’re trending on twitter
Cash (11:44 p.m.): ??????
Cash (11:44 p.m.): I wrote poppy and it came out poopy and my phone put the emoji
Cash (11:44 p.m.): Srry pooopy ??
Cash (11:44 p.m.): People think ur dating rosaline
Cash (11:45 p.m.): On tiwtter
Cash (11:45 p.m.): Because u 2 were making eyes on the carpet before u sacked that chick
Cash (11:45 p.m.): like kapow pow pow ??
Cash (11:45 p.m.): That was so badass pooptart ur so badass
Cash (11:45 p.m.): I love u
Cash (11:45 p.m.): I’m sorry I ran my mouth in teh limo I’m a dumbass
Cash (11:45 p.m.): I just love u so much and want u to be hppy
Cash (11:45 p.m.): Hapy as I am
Cash (11:46 p.m.): Have you told r4osaline u like like her yet
Cash (11:46 p.m.): Ok m gonna go lyric wants a take a bubblebth wit me bye
Poppy’s heart rose into her throat and her hands shook, a tremor she prayed Rosaline wouldn’t pick up on. Goddamn it, Cash.
She forced a laugh. “He’s wasted.”
Rosaline hummed and took back her phone. “Clearly.” Her lips twitched. “Poopy.”