Page 22 of One Spicy Summer

“Yeah?”

“Thank you,” she says, voice soft enough to fold into a whisper.

“For what? I didn’t do anything.”

“Yeah, you did.”

But she doesn’t say anything else.

A few minutes later, her soft snores fill the room, and I’m smiling like an idiot. “My little Princess is hell on wheels,” I whisper, pulling her closer.

My eyes drift shut, and for the first time in a while, I sleep without ghosts chasing me.

* * *

Ever since the night Presley fell asleep in my arms, I haven’t been able to sleep without her.

I’ve got a long list of reasons for my insomnia, my parents top the list, but Presley curled into my chest? That’s my cure.

It’s become our ritual. She texts me when the coast is clear, and I sneak in like I’ve done what feels like a hundred times before.

My parents argue more than they breathe, and half the time it’s about me. About how I spend more time across the street than in my own damn house.

Can you blame me?

Sharonda and Jack Collins live like some picture-perfect postcard family. They work late, but when they’re home, it’sfamily time, real, genuine, annoying-in-the-best-way family time.

Rafe pretends he hates it, but you can see it in his eyes, helivesfor it.

Me? I used to leave when their parents got home, pretending I didn’t want to intrude. But sometimes, I’d circle the block just to watch from the outside, wishing I had a sliver of what they did.

Inside that warm house, I saw it all: the love, the laughter, the way Sharonda doted on Presley, the way Jack clapped Rafe on the back like he was proud of everything he ever did.

I longed for that.

At my house, it was all about image. My dad’s politics. My mom’s designer getaways. They didn’t want a son, they wanted a legacy.

My life? A business transaction they never let me sign off on.

But it’s senior year. Soon, I get to make my own choices.

* * *

“Earth to Rygaard!”

Luke, our wide receiver, waves a hand in front of my face.

“You’re doing that thing again, Ry.”

“What thing?” I ask, even though I already know. I space out when I think about her. Always.

“That goofy-ass face you make when you’re in La La Land,” he laughs. “Either that or you’re trying to fart and your ass cheeks are locked in battle.”

The whole team laughs. Idiots.

We’re gearing up for game six. We’ve won the last five, and we’re on fire.

“Shut up, asshole.”

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