5. Chapter 5
Chapter 5
CHARLOTTE
M y windshield wipers squelch as they streak across the glass, whisking away the rain. Above me, the sky is an eerie shade of gray, matching my dark mood as I make the fifteen-minute drive to my mother’s house with only the sound of falling rain to keep me company since Rhonda the Honda’s stereo broke long ago.
I come to a stop at a red light, replaying the dinner with my father over again in my head. I still can’t believe he wants to get married. To say I’m shocked is an understatement, and the fact I have to spend the rest of the weekend with my mother harboring this secret is just fantastic.
When the light turns green, I press the gas, but Rhonda barely moves, releasing a sputtering sound that’s half groan, half gunshot.
My eyes widen as I press harder, and my foot hits the floor. A grinding sound fills the inside of the car and there is zero forward movement.
“No,” I moan, putting the car in park. I turn the ignition off then back on again as if I can reset the car to its original factory settings, but no matter how much I coax it, or how many times I press on the gas and turn the keys in the ignition, the response is the same.
As if everything with my father wasn’t enough . . .
Cursing, I put my hazards on while I contemplate trying to push the car to safety, but I’m no dummy. My petite frame is no match for this hunk of metal, and I could call my father for help, but I refuse to do so. The last thing I want is to run to him with my problems when I’m upset with him, so instead I call roadside assistance and wait.
I wake with a groan and roll over on the lumpy twin mattress. Maybe if I lie here long enough, I’ll magically transport myself back to my dorm room at AAU where I can go to the cafeteria for breakfast with my friends and pretend like my worst problem in life is getting indigestion from the greasy hash browns.
Knowing I’ll never fall back asleep, I rise from my spot on the bed and tiptoe my way into my mother’s small kitchen, careful not to make a noise that could wake her. It must be early; it’s still dark outside, and the house is quiet save for the gentle hum of the refrigerator. The clock on the stove confirms this when I see it’s just before six o’clock. I haven’t seen or spoken to my mother yet, and I can only imagine what she’ll have to say once I do.
With my father’s news heavy on my mind last night, I dreaded coming here. So after my car got towed, I took it as divine intervention and called an Uber and headed into town for some comfort food. Mostly because I wasn’t ready to face my mother. I knew the moment I got home, she’d have questions I wasn’t prepared to answer.
After gorging myself on a cheeseburger and fries, because I’d been too preoccupied with the awkwardness at dinner to eat much, and because I have zero problems eating my feelings, I walked the two blocks to the local park since the rain had stopped, then proceeded to contemplate life at the top of the jungle gym until my fingers and toes grew numb. When I couldn’t stand another minute, I found my way to my mother’s place, relieved to discover she’d already gone to bed and hating myself a little for avoiding her in the first place.
I have no idea what her reaction to my father getting remarried will be.
Scratch that.
I know exactly what it will be, and I expect nothing short of complete and utter devastation. And since I’m the lucky one spending the rest of my birthday weekend with her, I’ll also get to be the one to dry her tears. Considering I’m in no hurry to do that, I make a pot of coffee for her as quietly as I can, scooping out the grounds, filling it with water, and flicking it on before I fix myself a cup of green tea.
While the tea is steeping, I open the pantry cupboards to find them fairly empty.
With a frown, I check the refrigerator next, only to find it in the same state. Most of the shelves are bare and what little food is in here looks like it’s been here a while.
What the hell? There’s literally nothing to put together a decent meal, let alone a birthday meal.
My stomach sinks, because there’s only one reason for this.
Mom’s not doing well. Not that I would know. I’ve barely talked to her since freshman year, when, much to my surprise, she started thriving on her own. Selfishly, I now avoid most of her calls, afraid that talking to her might break the spell.
With a sigh, I search the cupboards for a travel mug, doctor my tea with sugar, and then head to my bedroom where I throw on a pair of sweats and an AAU hoodie before calling an Uber to take me to the local supermarket.
I make quick work of the aisles in the grocery section, taking a sip of my hot tea and contemplating how much better it would’ve been to spend my birthday in the dorms, even if my friends did all leave for the weekend.
But then I think of Chris and grimace because the boy is like a tumor: annoying, uncomfortable, hugely unwanted, but always hanging around. Seeing as how he’s the last person I want to see at the moment, I’m probably in the best place for avoiding him. I fully expect a lecture on my behavior once I return to campus, and I’m not in the mood to be reprimanded by someone who clearly had a stable family growing up. He has no idea what dysfunction is like. No idea what it feels like to live with so much uncertainty and tension yet be stuck in the middle of it.
Taking another sip of my tea, I veer my cart toward the bakery section and grab a small cake, followed by the ingredients to make chicken parmesan and a few staples to get my mother through the next few days.
Satisfied, I head to the checkout, wincing at the total and questioning my decision not to work during the semester. It may not be a lot, but as I swipe my debit card, I know it’s money I wasn’t planning on spending and won’t have a chance to earn back until I come home for Christmas break.
Once my ride arrives and they help me load the trunk, I head back to my mother’s house, praying she’s still asleep when I get there, but the second I open the front door, the grocery bags draped over my arms like a human octopus, my hopes are dashed.
Mom sits on the living room sofa, dressed in a sweater and jeans, instead of the pajamas I expect. Sad that her choice of clothing gives me hope, even for only a moment, I wonder if maybe this visit isn’t hopeless after all. Maybe she’s still doing well, despite the evidence to the contrary. Maybe the progress she’s made over the last year since I started college wasn’t for nothing.
She clutches a cup of coffee in her hands as her sleepy eyes drift to mine. “There you are. So, you did come home last night? I saw the rumpled blankets in your room but thought maybe I was going crazy until I found the coffee. When I couldn’t find you, I thought maybe you decided your life at school was more exciting and went back early.”
Guilt sinks in the pit of my stomach like lead at the knowledge I did contemplate going back. “Of course I wouldn’t do that,” I say, still trying to gauge her mood to see whether her seemingly neutral disposition is just a facade or the real her. “I just had some car trouble and got in late, so I went straight to bed, and when I woke up this morning, I noticed you had no groceries, so I ran to the store.”
“Oh.” Mom eyes the bags hanging from my arms as if noticing them for the first time, and a stab of irritation pushes away the guilt. For once, I wish I could come home without worrying about what state she’s going to be in. For once, I’d like her to actually plan ahead.
“Mom, you knew I was coming. It’s my birthday. What exactly were you planning on us eating?”
She purses her lips, sniffing as she lifts her chin, her long, dark hair falling away from her face. “You know I’m not much of a cook, and in my defense, Carol left early for work,” she says, referring to her neighbor who, since the divorce, she pays to help with the cleaning and shopping once or twice a week. “She’s moving, you know,” Mom adds as if this is the reason she didn’t prepare for my arrival.
“Yeah,” I say, my eyes drifting to the windows. “I saw the FOR SALE sign. So, she’s finally moving closer to her kids?”
Mom nods. “Not sure what I’ll do without her.”
The knot of anxiety in my chest tightens.
“Anyway,” Mom waves a hand out in front of her, “I was planning on asking you what you wanted to do last night, but then you never showed.”
My shoulders slump in defeat, because she has a point. “Well, it’s all settled,” I say, lifting the grocery bags as if to show her. “Let me just put this away.”
I brush past her, hurrying for the kitchen where I begin to unpack the bags.
At least she hasn’t asked me about Dad.
No sooner than the thought crosses my mind does Mom come up beside me. I can feel the heat of her dark gaze boring into my back while I set to work and fry us a couple of eggs.
I keep quiet as I pull out the skillet and wait for it to heat, then add the butter, wondering who will break the ice first when she finally asks, “So is it true?”
The air leaves my lungs like the wind leaving the sails of a boat, and when I don’t immediately respond, she adds, “It’s true, isn’t it? Your father has another woman, but it’s serious this time.”
“Yes,” I answer slowly, turning to face her, knowing there’s no way I can sugarcoat this. She’ll discover the truth one way or the other.
Mom nods, her face a somber mask.
“Why don’t we have a seat at the table and eat some breakfast,” I say, trying to sound more chipper than I feel. “I found these beautiful apple cinnamon muffins.” I grab them from the bag on the counter and hold them out. “Here, take these while I finish the eggs, and you can top your coffee off.”
I watch as Mom stares blankly at the muffins, then takes them and heads for the small dining room table just off the kitchen. She settles into her chair while I inhale a deep breath, preparing myself for what I’m about to tell her.
I plate the eggs, then take them to the table, serving us each a muffin before I settle into a chair across from her.
Mom nibbles on the crumble topping, anxiety emanating from her pores like bad whiskey.
Lifting my mug to my lips, I take a sip, soaking in the warmth of it as I try to find the courage to speak. I’m surprised when my mother’s the first to break the silence. “So, how’s school?”
I blink, shocked she’s asking about me and not my father.
I bite my lower lip to hide a smile, afraid to hope all is not lost. “It’s good. I’ve made some wonderful girlfriends, and my classes are going well.”
“That’s great.” Mom nods. “You don’t take my calls, so I wasn’t sure.”
Guilt clogs my throat, forcing me to clear it before I say, “Sorry. I’ve just been really busy trying to juggle everything.”
“I get it. You have your own life. I’m sure everything is new and exciting.” Mom smiles. “The last thing I want to do is drag you down.”
“Mom, it’s not like that.”
It’s exactly like that.
“How’s your job at the law firm?” I ask, deciding to change the subject.
“Oh, you know.” She waves me off. “Just filing paperwork and running errands. Busy work. Nothing exciting.”
“But you like it well enough?” I ask, unable to get a read on her answer and hoping she’s not purposely being evasive because she’s quit or been fired.
“Yes, Charlotte, I like it well enough. It’s a job,” she says with a huff. “I don’t have some fancy degree, so it’s about as good as it’s going to get for me, but Dr. Sherri says working is good for me, so . . .”
Dr. Sherri is Mom’s therapist.
Dr. Sherri deserves a freaking award for the progress she’s made.
“Well, you’ve been there almost a year now, so I’m happy to hear it.” I pick at my muffin, taking a small bite as I consider this conversation. I wasn’t sure at first, but it really does feel like Mom is still doing well. I’d like to say I’m not surprised, but the truth is, I’m shocked. I expected her to fall to pieces after I left for school, and not because I’m a narcissist who thinks I matter that much, but because her past behavior has given me no reason to think otherwise.
“You know,” I say, deciding to put myself out there. “I can get you a ticket to an AAU game sometime, if you want. We could go together. One of my best friend’s boyfriend plays, so we’re basically at every game.”
“Oh, uh . . .” Mom scrunches her nose. “I don’t know. I’m not much into football.”
I nod. “Right.” It was worth a shot.
“How’s Carol’s youngest son? I know the last time I saw her she was worried he might not graduate.”
“They let him take a summer class, so he could graduate on time. He’s actually going to a trade school by his brothers in Florida for welding now.”
“That’s awesome.”
I have a soft spot for Carol. Sometimes I think her presence, along with the influence of a teacher who inspired my career choice, are the only reasons I survived high school with my sanity intact. When Mom was unavailable, forgot to sign a field trip form, or couldn’t get out of bed to give me a ride, Carol was only a phone call away.
I take a bite of my muffin, glancing out the kitchen window into the backyard, gaze raking over the blanket of leaves on the ground, and I wonder if this is what normal feels like. Sitting here on my birthday with my mother, sharing coffee and apple muffins and making small talk.
I smile to myself because it’s something I could get used to. There are other memories like this interspersed in my childhood, times Mom was “normal” and not sad all the time.
I remember baking with her when I was young, making cookies and homemade granola. Gown shopping for homecoming. Teaching me how to put on makeup. Cuddling on the couch and watching Christmas movies. Wrapping presents until my fingers ached. But then something would happen, and depression would take over. Worse yet, were the times there was no warning and a depressive episode would hit out of nowhere. Suddenly, overnight she’d wake up a shell of her former self. The mother who laughed and braided my hair before school was gone, lost in the quicksand of her mind no one could save her from?not my father, nor me. Growing up with Tiffany Baker felt a lot like a yo-yo being yanked back and forth.
I eat my last bite of eggs, grateful for this moment. Maybe this weekend won’t be so bad after all. Maybe now that I’m away at school, when I do come home, I can enjoy our visits and make the most of them.
I push my plate away and catch my mother’s gaze. Her eyes are dark and nebulous, clouded with thought, and exactly like my own. “So,” Mom clears her throat, glancing down at her coffee, “what are your father’s plans for the weekend since you’re not there?”
And just like that, my happy bubble pops as reality crashes in, because our chances of having a nice birthday weekend just got a lot slimmer. I need to tell her about Dad; I know I do. If Mom finds out?and she will?and I didn’t tell her . . .
I focus back on her, watching her closely as I say, “I need to tell you something.”
The muscle in her jaw twitches, her gaze searching my face for answers while I contemplate all the ways in which I can break the news to her. I know she’ll eventually hear it on her own, but the guilt that comes with knowing and not saying anything is too hard to ignore.
“They’re getting married,” I blurt.
Mom winces like I slapped her. The darks of her eyes turn to mud as they fill with tears. “What?”
“They told me last night. It’s part of why I was home so late. I . . . I needed to think.”
Mom absorbs this information like a sponge, her expression quickly shifting into one of despair. “When?”
“In the spring?”
Mom bows her head, gripping the table with her hands as if to keep herself in her chair. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.” Her voice cracks when she asks, “Is she pretty?”
I shake my head. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
Her watery gaze lifts, meeting mine. “What does she look like?”
“Mom?”
“I need to know.”
I clench my jaw, unsure if I should deign her with an answer when I know it will only hurt worse. Barbie Collins is gorgeous. The years have been much kinder to her than to my mother. But I don’t say that. Instead, I say, “She’s okay, I guess. Blonde with blue eyes.”
Like her son.
“The complete opposite of me.” Mom tears her eyes from mine, biting her lower lip.
I don’t deny it, because she’s not wrong.
In every way, Barbie Collins is the complete opposite of Tiffany Baker, and not just her blonde hair and blue eyes compared to my mother’s darker features. Her personality is vibrant and bright, while my mother acts as though she lives beneath a constant raincloud.
While Barbie picked herself up by the bootstraps after her husband died to provide for her children, my mother struggled with depression her whole life, only to sink deeper after the divorce and struggles to hold a job.
“Does she have kids?” Mom asks.
Fuck.
I roll my lips together before answering. “Six.”
My mother’s eyes widen. “Are they all still at home?”
“Most of them,” I say, pretty sure Chris is the oldest.
“Wow.” A half laugh, half sob escapes her lips. “Your father barely even wanted one child when I was with him, let alone six.”
I absorb the dig, knowing my mother is likely unaware she basically just told me that my father didn’t want me. But that’s Mom, lost in her own world and oblivious to everyone and everything around her, unless it affects her.
“He had a family. I just don’t understand,” she wails, her chin quivering. “Oh, god . . .” She presses a hand to her chest as if she fears it might stop, a shadow shifting through her dark eyes I recognize?it’s the same one I witnessed on the daily after their divorce.
My stomach tightens. I knew she wouldn’t take the news well, and for once in my life, I’d like her to prove me wrong. To be stronger. Be the rock I need. “Mom, can we not do this?”
Her throat bobs as she wipes her eyes with the back of her hands.
“Please?” I plead. “It’s my birthday.”
“You told me my husband and the father of my child has a new family, and you want me to stop? To just . . . turn it off?” she says, her voice thick.
Yeah, Mom. For once, I want to just be your daughter.
I glance away from her, staring out the kitchen window.
“I’m sorry.” Mom covers her face with her hands for a moment before she straightens. “You’re right. I’ll be fine. I just need a minute to process.” She pushes away from the table, a wobbly smile spreading her lips. “I’m just going to lie down for a bit. When I get up, I’ll be good as new. Then I’ll help you cook.”
With that, she turns and hurries out of the room, leaving me alone with the dishes and the remnants of my muffin.
And that’s when I know how I’ll be spending my birthday.
Alone.
Because the mother I know?the one I’ve come to expect?is back.
Chapter 6
CHRIS
I toss the football in the air from my spot on the couch where I’m currently sprawled out on my back. “You should’ve seen her. I swear I saw steam coming from her nostrils. It was so fucking hot. Do you know how awkward it is getting that turned on in front of your mother?”
Jace just looks at me. “My parents are assholes, remember?”
“Oh, shit.” I hold the football, twisting toward him. “I forgot. Do you wanna talk about it? Maybe we can share feelings, have a little therapy sesh?”
“Shut the fuck up.” Jace chucks an empty beer can at me. “And only you would get turned on by that when she clearly hates your guts.”
I toss the ball in the air again and groan at the twinge of pain in my shoulders. After a brutal game yesterday where we lost to Alabama, Coach called an impromptu practice session this morning and proceeded to kick our asses, which explains why we’re now sprawled out on the couch in our living room drinking beer, nursing our sore muscles, and watching the Dallas Cowboys beat the New York Giants.
“Says the man who’s madly in love with the chick who hated him little more than a year ago,” I say with an eye roll.
“That’s different. We had history. Her hate was merely a cover for burning desire.”
I snort. “Right. Was it her ‘burning desire’ when you fought her for a cupcake and wound up pinning her to the kitchen floor and licking frosting off her thigh?”
Jace scowls. “That shit is sensitive information.”
“I’ll be sure to ask Brynn about it when she comes over tonight with my cupcakes.” I smirk.
“Dickhead,” Jace grumbles. “So is your mom upset Charlotte told them she won’t support the wedding?”
“Hell yeah, she’s upset. I haven’t seen her do anything for herself in all my years on this earth, and the first time she puts herself first and tries to choose happiness, Charlotte strikes her down like a fucking bolt of lightning.”
Jace glances over at me, a beer halfway to his lips. “Is it weird since you have a thing for Charlotte?” He winces. “Her mother and your father?”
I think back to the first time I met Charlotte. It was the summer before my first year. I’d already started conditioning with the Griffins and Brynn was temporarily living with us because of her psycho roommate. Jace was busy running from his feelings and the fact it was obvious he was head over heels for the girl, when her friends, Samantha and Charlotte, stopped by the apartment to pick her up.
The second I swung open the door, I knew I was in trouble. She checked all my boxes physically, and I was so dumbstruck that instead of formally introducing myself or saying something witty, I said Well, hello, ladies . Brynn’s in the kitchen, when what I should’ve said was Well, hello, Charlotte. My bedroom is this way and ushered her inside. Or something like that.
But instead of charming Charlotte, I spent the next five minutes hovering outside our kitchen with a shit-eating grin on my face, torn between watching Jace squirm over the fact Brynn was going on a triple date, and drooling over the hot brunette.
I’ve pined for her Charlotte ever since, and watching Jace and Brynn so happy and in love has only amplified the fact that I want what they have. Which is why I’m not about to let a minor detail like my mom marrying her father get in the way.
I shrug. “Not really.”
“I mean, assuming they actually go through with it and get hitched, that’ll make you and Charlotte stepsiblings.”
“It’s not ideal,” I say with a grimace. “Really puts a damper on my trying to seduce her, that’s for sure.”
Jace laughs. “Yeah, but let’s be real. It’s not like you ever had a chance.”
“Excuse me, but all the ladies love me, including your girlfriend.” Jace’s gaze darkens, so I quickly glaze over my last statement. “It’s only a matter of time before Charlotte is one of them.”
“Right,” he says through gritted teeth.
“It’s just slightly inconvenient. We won’t be blood related, but you know how society frowns upon hooking up with your sister.” Jace chokes on his beer, spluttering as I continue. “It’ll make our inevitable coupling all the more challenging.”
Jace wrinkles his nose. “Coupling? How do you make sex sound so fucking disgusting?”
I laugh, ignoring his question. “Do you think I can take her as my plus-one to the wedding? I mean, it’ll save our folks money if we’re each other’s date.”
“That’s twisted.”
The funny part is I’m not even joking.
A knock sounds on the door and both Jace and I call out: “Come in!”
When it swings open, Damon, now a junior and AAU’s quarterback, steps inside and glances at the huge-ass TV. Any time a game is on and we’re not on a football field ourselves, our apartment is the go-to place to hang since Jace’s parents bought the massive television to compensate for their lack of love.
“You have beer?” he asks, without so much as glancing our way.
“Yep,” I answer.
“Thank god.” Damon turns, his long stride eating up the floor as he heads for the kitchen and throws the fridge open while Brandon, our lineman, enters the apartment after him.
“Help yourself,” Jace mutters.
“Don’t mind if I do.” Damon grins and cracks open a cold one, taking a long pull. “You’re not drinking?” he asks, eyeing me.
“I do my best thinking sober,” I say, giving the football another toss as Brandon takes the chair opposite me.
“What are we thinking about?” Damon asks as he crosses the room and shoves my legs off the couch so he can take a seat.
“You know, the usual. Chris wants to bang his stepsister,” Jace says with a straight face.
“Oh, shit. That’s fucked up, even for you.” Damon takes another long pull as I spring to a seated position like a jack-in-the-box.
“Why is that fucked up?” I ask, my tone defensive. “We’re not related. She shares zero blood in my veins.”
“I don’t make the rules.” Damon shrugs. “Did you grow up together? Play Barbies and house and now you wanna butter her biscuit? I thought you had a thing for Charlotte? What happened to that ?”
“She is Charlotte, dumbass.”
Damon chokes on his beer, hacking up a spray of Miller Lite that covers the coffee table in a fine mist. “Hold up!” he says, gasping for breath. “Are you getting all of this?” he asks, looking at Brandon.
“Yup.” Brandon shakes his head, kicking his feet up on the coffee table as if settling in.
“Since when is Charlotte your fucking sister?” Damon asks.
“Stepsister,” Jace corrects.
“Thank you”?I point at Jace?“but she’s not my fucking stepsister, yet . She will be, though.”
Damon glances between us. “I’m not following.”
“Chris went to visit his mother yesterday for dinner with her new boyfriend,” Jace says with a wave of the hand. “As it turns out, her new boyfriend is Charlotte’s father. And not only that, but they dropped the bomb that they’re getting married.”
“No shit.” Damon scrubs a hand over the dark scruff on his jaw. “How did you not know?”
“Yeah, explain how you just now found out your mother’s new man is Charlotte’s father,” Brandon says, snatching the bag of chips off the coffee table.
I shake my head. “There was a nasty divorce, and I guess Charlotte and her mother changed back to her maiden name. I don’t know the whole story, but the whole stepsister part isn’t even the real problem,” I say, palming the football.
“There’s more?” Brandon asks, his eyes bulging.
“Shit. What the hell’s the real problem, then?” Damon asks.
“Let’s just say she’s less than thrilled at the prospect of her father remarrying and her claws came out.”
“Charlotte has claws?” Damon says dryly. “I can’t imagine.”
“Now my mother’s upset and fretting because she wanted us to be in the wedding and Charlotte basically told her father to go to hell, which means it’s on me to make her see the light.”
Damon purses his lips. “So, you have to melt the ice queen’s heart?”
“Exactly,” I say, snatching the beer out of his hands and taking a sip.
“Now, that’s a challenge,” Brandon says, his tone serious. “But are you sure getting involved is a good idea? I mean, Charlotte’s not exactly your number one fan. Maybe you should leave well enough alone; let your folks work out their own problems.”
“That’s what I said.” Jace tips a chin toward me. “Time to bury your head in the sand.”
I mock gasp. “We’re talking about my future stepsister here. And my future wife.” I wiggle my brows.
“You’re fucked up.” Damon snatches his beer back. “I can’t have your filthy lips on my can.”
“That sounded oddly sexual,” Jace muses.
“Fuck,” I say at the same time Damon recoils.
“This shit’s making me uncomfortable,” Brandon says, rising from his spot beside Jace to rummage in the fridge.
“All I’m saying is that a little greasing of the wheels won’t hurt. Their wedding is in five months, which means I only have so much time to grow the Grinch’s heart. Besides, it’s perfect, really.”
Jace belches, then asks, “And how is this perfect?”
“I’m with Jace,” Brandon says, peering out from behind the fridge door. “I see disaster written all over this.”
“Because her best friend is supposedly madly in love with you.” I motion to Jace. “Which means you can talk to Brynn and ask her to help her see reason.”
Jace raises his hands. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Don’t drag me into this shit. You’re friends with Brynn, too. You ask her.”
A devilish grin tips the corners of my mouth. “You want me to spend more time with Brynn? Did you hear that, boys?”
“You know what? Never mind,” he says, pointing at me with his beer. “Stay away from my girlfriend. Brynn is off-limits.”
“Such a territorial motherfucker. You’re just still sore Brynn’s making me cupcakes this weekend, aren’t you?”
“Maybe,” Jace mumbles into his beer.
“Well, whatever. Either way, I’m going to get Charlotte to change her mind. By the time Christmas rolls around, not only will she be okay with our parents getting married, but she’ll be planning the bridal shower, and come spring, she’ll be walking down the aisle with a smile on her face.”
“Whatever you say,” Jace mutters as he focuses back on the game.
“You don’t think I can do it?”
He glances my way with a smirk. “All I know is ever since Brynn and I came back to school as a couple last year, you’ve been pestering Charlotte, and so far, all it’s accomplished is giving you blue balls. So no, I don’t think you can sway her.”
I glance over at Damon, my jaw unhinged, as if to say can you believe this guy ? But all he does is shrug and nod toward Jace as he says, “I’m with him.”
“Same. You don’t have a chance,” Brandon agrees.
“Fucking traitors,” I grumble.
“Oh, don’t be such a baby,” Damon says. “It’s not like we’re rooting against you. We just don’t think you have the stamina to go toe-to-toe with Charlotte.”
My eyes widen, and I gasp. “Oh, I have the stamina,” I say, standing. “I have the fucking stamina of a . . . a . . . a . . . fuck! What kind of animal has a lot of fucking stamina?”
Brandon frowns. “A lion?”
“I watched a documentary once on lion coitus.” Brandon shudders. “You don’t wanna know about that shit, bro. Their penises have barb?”
“Holy shit. Forget about lion dick, okay?” I say, cringing.
“Lalalalala,” Jace says, plugging his ears.
“Whatever animal has the most fucking stamina, I’m that,” I say.
“Someone’s grumpy,” Brandon grumbles.
“All I’m saying is?”
“You have stamina,” Damon says, “we get it.”
“In and outside the bedroom.” I point at him.
“I don’t know,” Damon says. “If you couldn’t convince Charlotte to look your way before, I don’t see how you’re going to convince her now that she’s going to be your stepsister.”
Shit. He’s right. I know he’s right.
I’ve been trying to ignore how fucked up the situation is that the girl I’ve been trying to hook up with for the past year is now going to be my stepsister, but there’s no denying it. Hooking up is probably a bad idea. If Charlotte and I have sex or date and it blows up in my face, it’ll only cause more problems for my mother.
She needs to be the priority here. And she needs me to convince Lettie that my mom and her dad are good together, that they both deserve a second chance at love and happiness.
Which means I have to keep it in my pants.
Well, shit .
Frowning, I rise from my spot on the couch and head toward my bedroom.
“Where are you going? It’s not even halftime,” Jace calls out.
“To call your girlfriend for advice,” I holler behind me as I shut the door, smiling ear to ear when he yells:
“Stop calling my fucking girlfriend!”