Page 23 of Brushed and Buried
Becca’s right there with him, arm hooked through his, curls bouncing like she’s starring in her own private music video. Her skin catches the morning light, and that sundress, the way it moves when she walks, makes her look like she stepped out of a magazine. They’re one of those couples that just work, the kind that makes everyone else feel a little inadequate by comparison.
Trevor loves chaos like this. He’s already pointing toward the lawn, emerald grass dotted with colorful cones, buckets, and scattered beanbags. It looks like suburban Olympics threw up all over the resort grounds. Painted wooden signs mark each station, and white canvas canopies are set up at each corner with coolers full of water bottles and towels. A few cocktail tables with tropical centerpieces dot the perimeter, clearly meant for spectators and scorekeeper stations. The whole setup screams Trevor, but I heard it was actually Vince and Dinah who made it happen as the best man and maid of honor, working with the hotel to turn grass into a playground.
We finish breakfast and head outside. The smell of cut grass hits me, mixed with that salt-air breeze that makes everythingfeel like summer. Vince falls in beside me, hands buried in his pockets. He’s quiet as usual, but there’s something different, him being less rigid. It’s like he’s finally letting himself relax, just a little.
“You really outdid yourself,” I say.
There’s warmth in his eyes that hasn’t been there the last few days, something I haven’t seen in years. “Well, I might have some stage design background on my resume that helped me think about how to best capture Trevor and Becca in wedding-week form.”
My pulse picks up just a little. I’m caught off guard by his effort to bring back pieces of our past without any bitterness attached.
When Trevor draws the official pairings from his ridiculous hat with all the ceremony of a lottery drawing, I end up partnered with Vince, not that I’m particularly surprised at this point.
Vince’s brow arches at Trevor’s none-too-subtle meddling, and a hint of a smirk tugs at the corners of his lips like he’s fighting against his own amusement. He rolls his shoulders with that athletic control I remember from watching him dominate Sunday afternoon sports television, but I catch something else flickering in his gaze. It’s like genuine amusement dancing beneath the surface of his usual composed exterior. Every detail feels heightened, electric in a way that makes my skin prickle with awareness. The slope of those shoulders that used tosend entire defensive lines scrambling for new strategies. The measured way he breathes, like he’s calculating each intake of air.
I tilt my head at him, letting the ghost of a grin pull at my lips in what I hope looks like natural confidence. “I guess you’re stuck with me,” I say, my tone light and teasing, testing whether he’ll bite the bait I’m offering or maintain that careful distance he’s been keeping.
He shoots me a look that’s almost imperceptibly amused, and I swear I can feel something charge between us. It’s that same electric tension I used to try capturing in charcoal sketches, the moment right before lightning splits the sky and changes everything in its path.
We reach the first station, the sack races. Rough burlap sacks wait at the starting line, their frayed edges telling stories of years spent facilitating backyard chaos and rustic weddings past.
There will be two participants per sack, one positioned beside the other. The starting line buzzes with chaotic energy, laughter, and good-natured teasing bouncing across the lawn, but my focus narrows to Vince like everything else has gone soft around the edges. I’ve always been good at noticing details. It comes with the territory when you spend hours studying how light hits a face, how shadow defines a jawline. But with him, every line feels certain, every movement calculated yet somehow effortless.
“May the best person not fall flat on their face,” Trevor announces with theatrical flair, smirking like the cat whoswallowed the canary and asked for seconds. “Or, you know, the one with the bigger ego.”
Vince steps into the sack beside me, his solid thigh brushing against mine as we settle into position and find our balance within the confines of rough burlap. Heat pools immediately where we touch, subtle but insistent, like warmth spreading through canvas when you’re working with oils in direct sunlight. “Ready?” I ask, forcing my voice to stay casual despite the way my heart has begun hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.
“Sure,” he murmurs, low and measured, that particular tone I’m slowly learning to decode. Half calm professionalism, half barely contained energy waiting for the right moment to release.
The whistle blows sharp and clear across the morning air. We hop forward in perfect rhythm at first, burlap crunching and scraping under our feet with each synchronized movement forward. The goal is a bright orange cone set just twenty feet ahead of us. It’s our innocent-looking turnaround point that suddenly feels like it might as well be on the other side of the world. Thanks to Vince’s athletic build and natural coordination that made him a household name across the country, we cover the ground almost effortlessly at first, the burlap shifting and bunching between us without ever breaking our balance or pulling us apart. I can feel the subtle shift of him mirroring my movements, his warmth steadying mine in ways that have nothing to do with the game and everything to do withthe tension that’s been building since the moment I saw him again after all these years.
But the game doesn’t wait for private tension to resolve itself into something we can actually name or address. Trevor’s voice cuts through the laughter of the gathered crowd, urging us onward with the persistence of a sports commentator calling the final play of a championship game. With careful, deliberate hops, Vince and I manage to maintain our rhythm, the burlap bunching and shifting beneath our feet as our bodies move almost as one organism with a shared purpose. We skirt around the cone marking our final turn, sweat prickling at my temples and along the back of my neck as my pulse races in perfect sync with his steady, controlled energy.
Then, because of course the universe has a sense of humor, my foot catches a small divot hidden in the otherwise perfect resort lawn. Time seems to slow as I lurch forward, gravity taking over where coordination has failed. I twist instinctively to avoid face-planting, but the burlap tangles around our legs. Vince tries to counter-balance, his athlete reflexes kicking in, but the sack pulls us both down in a heap.
I land hard on my back, the air knocked from my lungs. Vince falls with me, his hands braced on either side of my shoulders to keep from crushing me completely. For a heartbeat, we’re frozen like that, him hovering over me, close enough that I can see the gold patches in his eyes, and feel his breath against my face.The burlap is twisted around us, trapping us in this awkward, intimate tangle.
“Uh…” I start, my voice tight with mortification. My heart hammers so hard I’m certain he can feel it. He doesn’t laugh at my clumsiness; he doesn’t immediately scramble away. He just holds steady, jaw ticking like he’s debating some unspoken choice. His hand shifts slightly against the ground beside my head, and I can’t tell if it’s reflexive or something more conscious.
Lance, still hopping awkwardly in his sack with George, whistles appreciatively. “Oh, wow! Hands-on strategy, Holloway? Very intimate approach to teamwork there, buddy!”
Vince mutters something under his breath, barely audible over the crowd’s laughter. I catch the slight hitch in his breathing that betrays him despite his composed exterior. He shifts, just a fraction, letting me glimpse past that media-trained armor for the first time since our reunion. I can’t help the smirk that tugs at my lips, leaning slightly into the moment, letting the warmth between us linger like a secret we’re both pretending not to acknowledge.
We make the final stretch, pushing through the lingering effects of our stumble and whatever that moment of connection was, and cross the finish line together in a burst of shared triumph that feels far more significant than it should for a simple sack race. Trevor’s enthusiastic hooting and clapping drowns out everything else around us, but all I can focus onis the shared, wordless relief of balancing in perfect, chaotic harmony with someone who was once everything to me, and probably still is.
“Sorry, I tripped,” I pant, brushing my hands over the rough burlap, heat creeping up my neck as I realize how close I still am to Vince. The morning sun catches the light sheen of sweat on his skin, making him look like he’s stepped straight out of one of those fitness magazine covers.
He just waves off my apology with cool grace, voice low but easy, carrying that particular warmth that makes my stomach perform acrobatic feats worthy of Cirque du Soleil. “It’s fine. It didn’t throw us off that much, all things considered.” His smirk is effortless, the teasing light and genuine, yet the way he brushes my hand when we step out of the sack sends electricity shooting up my arm like I’ve just grabbed a live wire.
We pause for water, both of us sweaty and laughing along with the rest of the group, trying to shake off the lingering effects of our stumble and whatever tension it created between us. I watch him as he drinks, and it’s like studying a figure drawing. The clean line of his throat as he swallows, the way his Adam’s apple moves, the beads of sweat sliding down the strong column of his neck in paths I find myself wanting to trace with something other than my eyes. My pulse kicks again with renewed intensity, and I have to look away before I do something stupid like stare too long and give myself away completely.
Next comes the wheelbarrow race, where one person holds the other’s legs while they walk on their hands across the grass. I figure we’ll do well with this one. Vince is taller, built with controlled strength and natural athleticism. He’s got the power to carry me without breaking a sweat.
“I hope I am not too heavy for you,” I joke as he crouches behind me. His hands clamp around my ankles, his grip firm and sure, the warmth of his palms seeping into my skin. I can feel the roughness there too, the calluses of a man who’s spent years gripping footballs and throwing around weights that would flatten me.
“I think I can manage you,” he says, his tone carrying the faintest edge, a mix of challenge and promise. His fingers tighten for a brief second, testing his hold, before he steadies me. It’s subtle, nothing anyone else would notice, but it makes my heart kick like a scratched record.
We start moving, my palms slapping against the grass, arms straining as Vince carries my legs behind me. Trevor immediately takes over as if he’s calling the Super Bowl, barking instructions from the sidelines.
