Page 5 of Presley's Christmas Catch
Lincoln’s now a proud member of Eli Dash’s Former Best Friends Club, and he probably thinks that because I spent a couple hours laughing with Presley at his wedding it means I like her. Ugh. Matchmaking is about to commence. I feel it, even from over a thousand miles away.
Brock:DO NOT get your club involved in this. I’m just friends with Presley. For real. We talked about books that whole time.
That’s not entirely a lie. We did talkmostlyabout the books, but our conversation touched on other topics, like her aunt and the Devils. But Lincoln will definitely read into me confiding in her about my frustrations. It was easy to talk to Presley, and the fact that we live so far apart made telling her stuff about my poor relationship with my teammates feel like not that big of a deal.
Lincoln:Club?
Brock:Don’t act innocent. I know what this is. You and Dash meddling. It’s not like that.
Lincoln:Bro. Friends is the best way to start.
Brock:Linc. I’m serious. I don’t feel that way about her and I don’t want you leading her on or whatever by making it seem like this is something it’s not.
Presley is sweet, and I enjoyed our conversation. I don’t want Lincoln messing that up, even if he has good intentions. Sure, Presley is beautiful, but things are totally platonic between us. It sounds cliché, but she’s not my type. She’s cheerful and fun, the opposite of my intensity. Even when she talked briefly about her aunt and how she passed away suddenly last year, her voice was light as she told me about her. That’s definitely not me. While the angry, brooding image the media’s painted of me is exaggerated, it’s not wrong. Besides, in all the texts between us, she’s never given me any indication that she’s into me either. No flirting. No comments that have double meaning. None of that.
Lincoln:Okay, okay. Guess I misread the situation.
He sends a gif of a guy holding his hands up in surrender, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
Brock:Thanks.
I clean up after myself in the kitchen, changing the water in a vase of daisies my mom’s boyfriend sent a couple days ago. Guys who are in love do stuff like that, the way my mom’s boyfriends have over the years.
I’ve had no desire to send Presley flowers, fyi. I consider texting Lincoln that, but he’s already surrendered, and I don’t want to bring it up again. He’ll make it a thing.
I head to the basement and the home gym. Mom uses it sometimes, but it was mostly me adding it in to the plans to make visiting her for stretches of time like this easier. She’s a runner and prefers running the trails around here when the weather permits.
An hour later, after my shower, I send Presley another text with a picture of me and my old, highlighted, creased, and dog-eared copy ofThe Obsidian Kingdom, the first book in the series.
Brock:Starting now. Go!
Presley:Not fair! You don’t have to work.
Brock:Your schedule is light too. Don’t try and hustle me.
Presley:
She sends a picture of her own very worn version of the book. Somehow I know this is the copy her aunt bought her all those years ago, and I like thinking that, without even saying anything to each other, we both chose to start this with our OG books. I grin. I’ve never gotten to share TOK with someone like this in real life, only in online conversations with people I’ve never met. It’s cool.
Presley:Already to chapter ten, sucker!
I laugh out loud. Oh, it’s on.
CHAPTER 3
PRESLEY
Brock is right that I have a lot of time on my hands right now, and I’m taking advantage of it. When training camp starts in July, my busy football season schedule will start along with it, so I’m enjoying the weeks I have where things are chill. As a training staff, we do have some players coming in over their time off for us to keep tabs on older injuries. For example, right now we have a wide receiver who had ankle surgery at the end of last season, and we’re rehabbing him and hoping he’s going to be back by the time we have our first regular season game in September.
The point is that I’m already halfway through the first book and I just barely suggested this to Brock yesterday. I’d feel weird about maybe getting into this more than him except he texted me fifteen minutes ago with a quote that tells me he’s not far behind.
My back is starting to cramp from lying on my bed half the day reading this book, so I set it aside, confident I can still stay ahead of Brock, and go in search of book two from my old collection. I love the idea of rereading with Brock, and okay, maybe I have this notion of us falling in love through our mutual obsession with this series, and I’m hoping to kick-start that with reading it together. But part of the reason I’m reading my oldcopy is for Aunt Shannon. I miss her so much, and something about reading the book she gave me helps me feel close to her. I can picture her face when she handed me the book, all hopeful, and the grin when my eyes widened at the cover. It has this dreamy look to it—Lyra with big doe eyes and a creamy complexion whited out by an orbed light in her hands, her brown hair swirling around her with some unknown, magical wind. And Kael, dark haired and brooding in the background. Thirteen-year-old me had a crush on him before I even cracked the already cracked spine. I judged that book by its cover, obviously, and fell in love with the story before I even read a word.
Aunt Shannon read the book that summer, right after I did, and promised me it was the best thing she’d ever read. Looking back, I remember that gleam in her eyes and the crooked smile, and I can interpret how she agreed with me because I was her favorite niece. (Okay, yeah, her only niece.) And we were buddies. She got me. Despite being close to my mom, I had a bond with Aunt Shannon that was a “just us girls” kind of thing.
Right up to the day she died, I told her all about all my crushes, about every guy I thought was cute, and every detail about my relationships, long or short, including the kissing. She probably relayed all of it to Mom, but it didn’t matter. She was my bestie.
I’m rooting around the top shelf of my closet, looking for book two, which is mysteriously not with the rest of my collection on a bookcase in my room, when my gaze lands on the small, shoebox-size storage container Aunt Shannon left me when she died. It’s been almost a year, and I haven’t been able to look into it yet. I grab it and step down from the step stool, holding it carefully in both hands as I walk to my bed. Tears immediately well in my eyes, and I almost take it back, but what happened with Brock last week has given me new courage. I think Aunt Shannon would have been disappointed that I’ve been this scared to open it.
