Page 113 of Lighting the Lamp
When he left for Boise, I lost more than a friend. I lost my buffer. My sounding board for anything and everything going on in my mind. Everyone has always tried to understand the way my brain worked without me having to explain it, but everyone was waiting on pins and needles for me to freak out, ready to swoop in and fix it when that happened. In short, they handled me with kid gloves growing up. It’s gotten better as we’ve gotten older, but Cole has never been like that. Ever. He would throw me into the deep end and wait for me to ask for help beforelifting a finger. At first, I thought it was because he hated me, but with time, I discovered he was making sure that I could handle it myself, and that meant more to me than anything.
Now he’s back, and I’m glad. I really am, but I can’t let him see me unravel. Not over Beau and especially not a second time. He’d take one look at my face and know something had happened, and he’d never let it go.
“I’m fine,” I say too quickly. “Just a long day.”
“You always were a terrible liar.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Then you’re just bad at hiding things.”
“Seriously. I’m fine.”
He studies me, the lines around his eyes softening, concern flickering behind his usual smirk. He doesn’t push—not yet—but I can tell he’s filing it away, making a note to circle back.
“You know,” he says after a beat, slinging an arm casually over my shoulders, “Beau’s gonna lose his mind when he sees you in the wrong Hendrix’s jersey.”
“Cole,” Ramona chastises, elbowing him hard.
“What?” he says, half-laughing. “I’m just saying. He gets that twitchy-eye thing going on when he gets territorial. I saw it once when a guy cut in front of Alise in line at a coffee shop and boom, death glare for days.”
Don’t show it. Don’t feel it.
“It’s not the wrong jersey.” I force a chuckle, but my mouth’s gone dry.
“Oh, it is,” he says, eyes twinkling.
“As long as you’re wearing someone’s jersey with the last name Hendrix on the back, that’s all that matters, if you want to make it out of here alive,” Kyle says, already grinning like the devil in his own Hendrix jersey. “You see how tense Momma’s been all morning? She’s one wrinkle away from an aneurysm.”
“Don’t worry, I brought a spare of mine just in case. Momma made me because there was no way in hell I was letting Michele wear one of my brother’s jerseys.”
From behind us, Michele’s voice cuts in like a gleeful dagger. “Now who’s getting territorial?” She giggles, planting a sloppy kiss on Cole’s cheek. “He threw a fit like a toddler when Ms. Mel brought one of Cooper’s jerseys for both of us to wear.”
Cole scowls, his arms folded tight across his chest. “The only thing she required was for the jersey to say Hendrix on the back. The rest is inconsequential.”
“You don’t need to pout,” Michele says, all sugary sweet. “I’m wearing your jersey, even though you’re benched right now…”
“I’m still on the roster,” he mutters.
“In spirit, sweetheart.” She pats his chest like she’s consoling her particularly fussy cat, Imhotep.
I snort a little too loudly, but Michele flashes me a wink. I let the moment carry me, the sound of their voices and the comfort of shared inside jokes wrapping around me like a blanket.
“I hate all of you.” Cole groans dramatically, leaning his head back.
“You love me,” Michele says with a smug little grin.
“I’m re-evaluating.”
“I have evidence,” Michele announces with a wicked grin, scrolling on her phone before holding it up like a trophy. “Your face the first time I wore your jersey. That was full-on heart-eyes. Do not deny me my victory.”
Cole is clearly regretting his life choices, a look halfway between annoyance and resignation. I’ve seen that face before, the“I love her, but please stop talking”expression that’s 90 percent affection and 10 percent sheer panic. He used to only look like that when Auntie Mel was singing his praises, and he had no idea how to handle it, but it’s nice to see that there is another woman who owns a piece of his heart.
“Can we not talk about Cole’s heart-eyes?” Kyle pipes up dramatically, clutching his stomach. “I just ate.”
“Shut up. You’re just jealous.” Michele reaches out and smacks his arm with the familiarity of someone who’s done it a thousand times before.
“Damn right, I’m jealous,” Kyle fires back, pointing at her like he’s been waiting for this moment. “You picked the crusty old middle brother instead of me, your actual best friend. I’m the fun one, the charming one, the only Hendrix who could give you real star power.”
