“You want to set up some tables?” Josh asks, rolling the loose basketball toward the grass where it won’t roll into the street.
“Sure.”
We both walk with heavy sluggish steps into the house, still a little bushed from the last hour spent outside. Josh walks ahead of me, and I trail behind, wiping at my face using the shirt I have in my hand.
“Oof!” A sharp gasp and a body colliding into mine makes me curl inward and grunt.
I rounded the corner from the stairs without looking, and Teeny crashed into me as soon as she stepped off the last step, rushing down the stairs with the pitter-patter of urgent feet. Her palms press into my stomach and my hands instinctively grab her arms to stop her from falling back.
“Eww!” Teeny grimaces, pushing herself off me. “You’re all sweaty.”
I laugh, shaking the sweat hanging off my hair to land on her cheeks and nose. Her face scrunches, her lips pulling into a cute pout as she fakes disgust. She ducks her head to avoid my perspiration sprinkle while the bubbly sound of her laughter turns infectious.
“Ugh, you’re so gross.” She’s pushing me away even more, shoving my shoulder, but she’s all smiles and giggles. I notice then what she’s wearing. A black bikini top and jean shorts. Her bare stomach is exposed, showing the evenly tanned skin on her midsection, and I can see faint tan lines run across her chest and shoulders. Like she has various bathing suits with different straps and ties, making marks based on what she chooses to wear. “You should jump in the pool. Get all of that gross sweat off your stinky body.”
I smirk. “Only if you join me.”
Instead of humoring me, she tilts her head to the side. “I have snack duty,” she says, walking away, but I don’t miss the pink flush blotting her neck and shoulders.
I follow her to the kitchen where she has a bunch of different snacks laid out. Cupcakes, brownies, cookies, candies. She disappears into the pantry and returns with a box of Pop-Tarts before removing one from a sleeve and warming it in the toaster.
I mosey over to her side and pick up the box, reading the label. “Frosted Wildlicious Wild Berry.”
“You can say that without twisting your tongue, but you can’t say ‘excusez-moi.’”
“It’s English,” I argue.
The toaster jerks, spitting out the Pop-Tarts with a jolt. “Want one?” she offers.
“Aren’t these breakfast foods?” I tease.
“I like them,” she answers with an innocent shrug. She reaches for the freshly toasted Pop-Tart resting in the toaster and picks it up with the tips of her fingers to avoid the heat, but it doesn’t seem to help in the way she expected because she plays a short game of hot potato before quickly placing it back in the toaster slot. “Ah!” she exclaims softly.
“Is it hot?”
She nods, flicking her wrist to ease the burn. I take her hand, spreading her fingers apart and blowing at them with my lips inches away from her fingertips.
Her breathing kicks up as I notice her chest rise and fall at a more rapid pace than before, her lips parting to softly exhale a breathy sigh. My thumb brushes over her wrist, and I feel the faint beat of her pulse. It’s fast and thready. A flush crawls up her neck, and I almost debate letting go of her to ease her flustered state. Almost.
“Better?”
She nods, and a little bit of those nerves dissolve as her hand falls slack in mine. “Thank you.”
Her fingers curl over my palm, and our linked hands sit there, hovering in the space between us. She looks at me over the curve of our fingers, and she smiles. It’s soft and gentle and playful. I smile back, the upward slope of my lips mirroring hers. I want to tug her closer to me. I want to press my lips to the small spot on her skin that got burned. Maybe even throw a scolding glare and a light smack to the toaster. Payback for her injury.
Mr. Cohen walks into the kitchen, and I let go of Teeny’s hand. He eyes us, the only two in the kitchen with Teeny’s pink-tinged cheeks and my shirtless torso, and tells Teeny, “Can you help Andrew get dressed? He can’t find his lightsaber for his costume.”
She looks over at me with a knowing smile, and I see Mr. Cohen watching her. “Sure, Dad.”
Teeny leaves, and I’m caught with the kitchen island sitting between myself and Mr. Cohen’s stern stare.
“Hey,” Josh calls, walking in behind his dad. “There you are. The tables are in the garage.”
I clear my throat. “Yeah,” I say, aware of Mr. Cohen’s watchful gaze. “Let’s go.”
* * *
The smell of barbeque and sweet desserts fill the air outside in Josh’s backyard. We’re surrounded by the sound of screaming kids, adults laughing and talking, and the occasional giggles from Josh’s cousins. All girls, who look to be about fourteen or fifteen, huddled over two folding chairs. They keep looking over at where Josh and I are, standing next to the grill his older brother, James, is manning as he pokes at it with an excessively large set of tongs, repetitively turning a spread of hamburger patties and hot dog weenies. Teeny walks over with an empty plate, and I instinctively stand up taller.
