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I open my eyes wider and find Kellan standing over me, looking tired and distinctly soft around the edges. He’s wearing a blue t-shirt that hugs his muscles, and...
“My God.” I flex my legs. “Ohhhh.”
“Sore?” He smirks.
“Oh... very. Ow.” I sit up, groaning as I do.
Kellan helps me down from the big bed and I dress quickly in jeans and a black Tom Petty t-shirt, because I assume there’s a certain time we have to be there.
As I sit in the wing-backed chair and tie my sneakers, looking out at the pitch black night through the window wall, he comes and crouches at my feet. He rests a hand on the shoe I’ve already laced and looks up into my eyes. “There’s a risk here. I want to be sure you know that. Are you okay with that?”
“Yeah, sure.” I finish tying my other shoe and straighten up. He takes my hand and rubs the top of it, so gentle that, for a second, my eyes drift shut again. I pull them open, finding him somber. “Isn’t there a risk with dealing too?”
He nods, covering my hand fully with his. “But this is different. I’m not getting that much imported anymore, but this is a lot more than you’ve ever had on hand. I don’t think anything will go wrong, but we could get busted. It’s always a possibility.”
I shrug. “Optimist, remember?” I push my hair back. Little strands of it have escaped my French braid and are hanging in my eyes, but I’m not going to take the time to re-braid it. Not here, anyway. Maybe in the car. “Hey, that reminds me. Where’s that stray cat you were telling me about?”
He shrugs. “I haven’t seen her lately.” He stands up and pulls me with him. When I’ve gotten to my feet, he laces his fingers through mine, and as we walk through his room, I think how strange it is to just be holding hands. In a way it’s even stranger than our casual-not-casual sex has been. He bends his wrist, bringing my arm a little closer to his body, and it feels so nice.
We walk downstairs that way, and I find he’s already made us each a water bottle. There’s a granola bar by mine. Kellan lets my hand go so he can grab both bottles. I grab my granola bar and Truman bounds over from some unknown Truman resting spot. The three of us clomp down the hall as if we’re going to do something ordinary, like throw a Frisbee at the park, and I’m reminded of “Scooby Doo.”
“Did you ever watch ‘Scooby Doo?’” I ask Kellan as he locks the front door.
His mouth curves up in a lazy, sort-of smile. “Oh yeah. Did you?”
“Yep. I was always wanting to wear my Grans’ old lady head scarves around my neck so I could look like Daphne.”
Kellan laughs—a rich chuckle that makes my skin tingle—and steps in front of me to open my car door. I scramble into my seat, disappointed when I have to let his hand go. I beam at him as he closes the door behind me, then I smile out at the darkness through the windshield. I hear the door behind me open and close, and then Truman’s head appears between the two front seats. I rub his ears as Kellan gets into the car.
I notice as he cranks it that the design on his worn blue t-shirt is a manatee. My eyes drift down to his thighs, which are clad in dark denim.
“You’re such a California guy,” I tease as he turns down the dirt driveway.
He tugs on his t-shirt and raises his brows.
“I love manatees.”
“High school fundraiser,” he says.
“I want to hear about your swanky high school.”
Kellan reaches down by his door, pulling out a navy Braves cap that he presses onto his head. He adjusts the bill as he turns from his driveway onto the dirt road that will take us to the highway.
“Some other time,” he says.
“Are you nervous?” I ask as we bump over the dirt road. Moonlight pearls on the hood of his car, so bright white it hurts my eyes.
He shakes his head, and I’m surprised to find that I’m a little disappointed by how focused he seems on the road, by how his free hand rests on his right knee instead of twined in mine. And realizing my feelings, I feel a trill of fear.
This isn’t serious, I remind myself. But the words ring hollow in my head.
He looks somehow both younger and older in the ball cap. Like a high school baseball player—or a young dad. The light from the dash illuminates the planes of his face, and they look like mine. My heart says MINE. I squeeze my eyes shut.
“Who will we be seeing tonight?” I ask quietly.
“I get the imports from my Uncle Pace,” Kellan says. “He’s really a cousin, but he’s kind of old, so we just always called him uncle.”
“Oh. A family member.”
