Page 118 of Dream Chaser
It’s almost midnight when I see it.
I’m brushing my teeth, already half-asleep, scrolling one last time like a damn glutton for punishment, and there it is.
Caption:It’s Thirsty Thursday.
The caption’s harmless. Teasing. A joke, probably. But the video?
Iz soaked. Laughing. Darting behind one of the tanks in the brew room, hose in hand like she’s waging war on Lo. Her hair’s stuck to her cheeks, her jeans dark and clinging, her hoodie showing just enough to imagine everything beneath it. She shrieks and spins, mouth open wide in laughter, and I swear to God I feel that sound in my chest. Yeah, and other places, too.
Instant. That’s how fast it happens.
My hand tightens around my phone. My chest rises.
She’s fourteen hundred miles away, and I want her like she’s across the room.
I close the app. Shut off the light. But it’s no use. The image is burned behind my eyelids now—her flushed, soaked, wild.So hot.
My body reacts before my mind can reason with it.
By the time it’s over, I’m breathless, sweaty, and spread out like I just played four quarters and left it all on the field. Except, I didn’t. Because nothing about that release satisfies the way she does.
And the worst part? I know damn well she knew what she was doing when she posted that.
Thirsty Thursday.
I post another black screen, but with a skull emoji. Caption:Dead.
“Rain for another week,” Grand mutters without looking up from her crossword, glasses slipping down her nose as I skitter past, gripping my wastebasket of shame.
“Good morning to you, too,” I call back, voice a little too high-pitched. “Don’t worry about the weather—you’re all the sunshine I need.”
She snorts. “Boy, don’t flatter me when your feet are doing the guilt shuffle. I may not see great, but I can hear shame in your steps like thunder before a storm.”
“Just cleaning up,” I say as casually as I can manage. “Keeping my space tidy.”
“Uh-huh,” she hums, tapping her pencil thoughtfully. “Seems to me the only thing getting well-used around here is that poor tissue box. And last I checked, no one ever fell in love with a man known for his strong right hand.”
I groan. “Grand.”
She folds her paper and gives me that look, the one that’s seen through every excuse since I was old enough to lie about brushing my teeth. “You know what I think?”
I brace.
“I think whatever has you walking around here like you’ve got a storm cloud in your pants and a love letter in your chest needs to be handled the old-fashioned way.”
“What’s that?”
She leans back in her chair, arms crossed. “Get your ass on a plane. Go see her. The fish’ll still be biting when you get back. But that girl?” She pauses. “She might not wait around forever.”
I nod, running a hand through my hair, already knowing she’s right. Grand always is.
“And Griffon?” she adds, voice softening.
“Yeah?”
She points toward the trash can. “Take that with you. We keep trophies, not mementos of your emotional crisis.”
Grand promised she’d consider getting jacked up on Benadryl and fly out to see me someday soon, but what really matters is what she said next. That shepromised—and her promises always mean everything—that she’d come visit me during the season. And again in the off-season. She swore she’s still allergic to snow, though.
