"Remind me to fix that door for Mom and Dad when I can move again," I say. "There's something wrong with it. It shouldn't be squealing like that."
Addie nods and looks at the kid.
"Coop, come help me bring plates and stuff outside," she says. "And you," she points at me. "Go put a shirt on. No nipples at the dinner table." She makes a face and turns on her heel with the kid right behind her. I slide my phone into the pocket of my athletic shorts and then use the power lift button on the chair to get to my feet. Well, one foot and my crutches, anyway.
"Yeah, no nipples at the table," the kid says over his shoulder. Addie hip-checks him, and he catches himself on the wall. "Brat," he says.
She sticks her tongue out at him, and he makes a face as they saunter into the kitchen.
I hobble down the hall to my room, feeling like the sweetest pitch of my life dangles over the plate, waiting for me to slam a home run. I can't hobble fast enough. Who is this kid? Is it wrong to hope he's not who I think he is? That Addie's friend isn't his mom and she's single? Is she even here?
I'm getting ahead of myself, in more ways than one. My relationships have always been superficial. Nothing ever had substance because nothing felt real. I've been searching for a relationship that emulated the most prominent examples in my life—my parents and my grandparents. I don't think it exists, so I'm coming to terms with the fact that I'm destined to end up alone.
It's an uncomfortable realization.
That and I may need to buy shorts with a string because these aren't working well. The band of my shorts, the side with my phone in the pocket, slides down my hip with each swing of my leg. I can't wait to throw these fucking crutches in the trash.
Behind me, the slider off the kitchen squeals again. I'm still ten feet from the bedroom door and wishing with every step I'd opted to put on underwear today. I hobble faster, my shorts sliding down my legs.
"Unless you want to see a full moon, you should—"
"Oh my God, is that a butterfly on your ass cheek?" a woman says.
That wasn't a voice I recognize. With my shorts hung up on the brace on my left leg, I stop in my tracks and look over my shoulder, keeping my front out of view. I'm met with deep brown eyes, the color of espresso. She's tall, at least five foot nine with curves wrapped in black leggings and a Simple Plan T-shirt cut above her navel. I feel like Jim Carrey in The Mask, like my tongue has rolled out a red carpet for her. My dick twitches. Fuck.She's gorgeous but definitely younger than me, which means she's precisely who I hoped she wasn't. So now, I'm doomed.
"It's always on the fucking ass cheek," she says and then murmurs something about men. Or maybe she said something coherent, and I missed it because I'm hypnotized by her full lips and the silver ring decorating the bottom one.
"Do you mind?" she asks, gesturing to the bathroom door I'm blocking.
"Not if you don't," I say and turn back toward the bedroom. I move far enough to let her pass and sneak a glance over my shoulder, where I find her staring.
She cocks a plucked brow at me and enters the bathroom, her long hair whipping behind her as she closes the door.
I'm not positive this is Addie's friend, although all signs point in that direction. I don't know her name, but I know one thing: she's a storm cloud of dark hair and attitude, and I desperately want to get caught in the rain.
Chapter four
Jade
It's warmer than usual for early October in Tennessee, and Addie's family is taking full advantage. The flowers in the garden are holding on tight to their last petals, and a stray bee flutters between them.
Across from me, Addie forks a bite of salad and raises it to her mouth.
"Addie, wait for your brother, please," Mr. Hayes says.
Her fork drops with a clang, and she rolls her eyes. "It's not my fault he's slow as fuck," she mumbles.
Well damn, Ads. Tell us how you really feel.
Her attitude is unlike her, and though we all feel it, nobody acknowledges it.
At the end of the table, Mrs. Hayes squeezes her eyes shut, her blonde hair falling loose from the clip that pulls it back. "Mateo's recovering from surgery, so he's moving a bit slow," she tells me.
As if on cue, the sliding door opens, and the man in question fumbles his way through it, fully clothed. Which is, I admit, slightly disappointing. I tell myself it's his tattoos pulling me in—curiosity about the ink decorating his skin. He shifts his weight to his good leg, pulls the door closed with a slam, and lumbers his way toward the table. Light blue eyes narrow on me as he sits next to Addie.
"This little punk belong to you?" he asks, nodding toward Coop.
"Excuse me?" I say.
