Page 103 of Biggest Player
I’m terrified by this child, to be honest, and what she could possibly be about to say. She’s got an adult brain trapped in a preteen’s body, and I can see the wheels spinning.
“No. What should we do?” I haven’t the faintest.
“We should have ahandshake.” She announces it in a conspiratorial whisper, practically giddy at the notion.
“A handshake?”Thank God that’s all she wants to do.I thought she was going to say something truly horrifying, like: “Why are you such a lying asshole?” Or, “Why are you dating my mother when you have no intention of getting serious?” Or, “Why are we rock-wall climbing when you clearly have no idea what you’re doing and your body weight is going to be too heavy for you to hoist up the wall without a fight?”
“Sure.” I can do a handshake.
“The kind you have to practice and that we can do when I see you.”
I nod. “I know what kind you’re referring to.”
Wyatt immediately grabs my hand, zero hesitation, bumping my hip with hers, as if attempting to recreate the handshake fromTheParent Trapremake. The handshake done between the redheaded twin and her fancy butler slash driver.
I can’t help but laugh.
Wyatt looks so determined, tongue sticking out between her teeth in concentration.
“Have you actually ever done a handshake?” ’Cause a few things go into one, and one of those things is skill, based on your level. “We can start with something easy. Like this.”
I present my fist so she can bump it. Hold out my elbow so she can bump that.
Clap, clap. Bump. Clap.
“Now let’s do that again,” she tells me, total concentration furrowing her little brow.
We do it again.
Then once more.
So many times that Margot is back from peeing, watching us but not commenting, an amused smile on her face. Arms crossed.
“Are the two of you almost done?” She laughs. “That is your fifth time. Not that I’m in any rush to strap on that ... belt-bungee-contraption thingy.”
“Harness.” I correct her terminology. “Which I’m dying to see you in.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re so amusing.” Not.
“Come on, let’s go.” Wyatt practically drags me to the wall, hand wrapped around my forearm, little arms and legs working. Pretty strong considering how puny she is.
I let her pull me along, pretending to struggle. “All right, all right, I’m coming. No need to flex those tiny muscles.”
“You’re just jealous because I’m stronger than I look,” she shoots back, her grin wide.
“Sure, let’s go with that,” I reply, trying to stifle a laugh.
The instructor, some dude named Ben—with a permanent five-o’clock shadow and a smile that suggests he gets a lot of action from this gig—gets us situated with our rappelling gear. Helmets. He has the air of someone who’s been scaling walls since birth, and his confidence has Margot smiling openly at him.
I frown.
“All right, guys, listen up,” Ben says, his voice carrying easily over the chatter in the cavernous room. “First things first, let’s make sure your harnesses are on properly.” He walks around, checking each of us. When he reaches me, he gives my harness a quick tug and nods. “Looks good, buddy.”
Buddy?I’m not your buddy, man.
Wyatt gets the same treatment. “A little tight there, champ. You’re not trying to cut off circulation, are you?”
Next, Ben stops in front of Margot. “And you, miss.” He gives my date a cheeky once-over, pulling at her straps one too many times, hands lingering at her waist. “Perfect fit.”
