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After a long pause, she replies:
Riley: You made me cry.
Dylan: I’m sorry.
Riley: I’m falling so hard for you, Dylan Banks.
Dylan: I’m already there, Riley Hudson.
She doesn’t respond after that and I don’t mind that she doesn’t because it gives me the opportunity to work on something I was supposed to do yesterday. I grab what I need and sit in the corner of my room, imagining exactly what she described in her dream. And I let that feeling guide me through my task until I fall back asleep, her dream now becoming mine.
Nineteen
Dylan
I wake up to the sound of my phone ringing. For a second, I get excited, thinking it’s Riley. It’s not. It’s Jake.
“What’s up?” I check the time. 9:47. They’re not meant to be here until 11.
“Yo. My fucking truck died on the way to your house. Cam and Logan are with me. The girls are coming later. Can you come get us?”
“Yeah, man.” I sit up and rub my eyes. “Where are you?”
“Close. We’re just at the exit off the highway.”
I hang up and shrug on some clothes, still half asleep as I walk through the hallway, past the kitchen, and toward the back door leading to the yard.
As soon as I open the door water splashes my face and my chest. Followed quickly by something brown and soft. And now I’m awake.
Awake and angry.
I look down at myself before looking at them. I’m soaking wet, covered in feathers.
Jake and Logan are standing a few feet in front of me—both holding buckets. Jakes drops his. “Oh, fuck,” he whispers, eyes wide.
Then Logan breaks out in laughter.
“You know I carry, right?” I threaten, only half-joking. The second I take a step, something wet hits my head. It’s white. Milk. I start to look up, just in time to see eggs falling from the sky. The first one hits my shoulder, then the rest is a blur. After closing my eyes, I ball my fists at my sides, trying to keep my anger in check. Jake and Logan are cackling like idiots, and now another guffaw from above. I wipe my eyes so I can see Cameron’s stupid face hanging over the roof edge, one arm out holding a paper bag. I don’t need to see it to know what’s inside, I taught these assholes everything they know. He gives me a face splitting grin before flooding me with the entire bag of flour. “Mayhem, motherfucker!”
I shower and change quickly, leaving them outside to clean up their mess, which they do without protest. “You fucking jerks!” I call out, stepping out from the back door.
Cam stifles his laugh. “It was funny, asshole. Come on. If it were one of us you’d claim that Op. Mayhem genius.”
“Dude,” Logan whispers, his smile so wide and so smug it takes everything in me not to punch him. “Who’s that smoking hot chick I saw leave your house this morning?”
“Who? Sydney? That’s my brother’s girl.” I smirk. “And I’ll be sure to tell Amanda you said that.”
Instantly, his smile drops. “Don’t you dare.”
“She’d put your balls in a vice,” Jake says.
“Or worse,” Cameron chimes in. “She won’t touch them ever again.”
“Jesus Christ,” Logan mumbles, rubbing his face. “Don’t talk shit like that. You’ll jinx me.” He looks at me with fear clear in his eyes. “Seriously, D. Don’t fucking tell her I said anything.”
Cam chuckles while he taps away at his phone.
“It’ll cost you,” I tell Logan.
“Name the price.”
“Give me time.”
“Fine!”
Jake shakes his head. “It blows my fucking mind we’re all friends.”
“No shit,” I murmur.
Logan’s phone sounds. “This better not be her,” he says, his eyes fixed on Cameron whose phone’s still in his hand, smiling like the Cheshire cat. Logan taps his screen a few times, his brow bunching more with each passing second. Then his gaze snaps to Cam again. “Did you get a strap-on sent to my house?”
Cam shrugs and shouts loud enough to be heard over Jake’s and my laughter. “You know… just in case you ever feel like being a man again.”
* * *
We head out, in my truck, over to the batting cages while we wait for the girls to arrive. But not before I leave something for Riley at her doorstep.
I don’t know why we chose to go to the cages considering I can’t even bat. Or pitch. Not that any of us would since we’re with Jake. We end up sitting at a table talking shit and watching people strike out.
Cameron drops enough food to feed a small village on the table and sits down opposite me. “You know we’re grilling at my house, right?” I tell him.
He nods and shoves half a hot dog in his mouth. Then he tries to speak, but with a mouthful of food it’s kind of impossible to understand him. He finishes chewing and makes his attempt to swallow look like the hardest thing in the world. When he’s done, he wipes his mouth on his forearm and says, “Lucy’s gone all wifey and has been attempting to cook every night. And every night it tastes like balls. Side note: I fucking hate Pinterest.”
“Me too. Her and Amanda share some fucking board and the other night we had a single piece of ravioli—”
“Raviolo,” Cam interrupts.
“What?” Logan snaps.
“Ravioli is plural. Raviolo is singular. One giant piece of pasta: Raviolo.”
