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Point made—she’s a big girl. She can choose our fate. Honestly, it’s so much easier to let her decide everything.
“Have you ever done a cold bath?”
Her brows shoot up to her hairline and she shakes with a single laugh before folding her arms over her chest.
“I amnotbathing with you!” she protests.
“Uh, well, yeah. And . . . wow, hurtful,” I say, oddly a little dejected by her insta-protest.
I toss my spare shorts to her and she catches them against her midriff.
“I meant in the stream. There’s a really great spot that’s an easy climb down, and you’d be surprised what natural water can do for sore muscles and healing.” I sound like one of those woowoo freaks when I talk this way, but I swear this water has always done more for me than the training staff at Welles athletic department.
“Are you high right now?” she asks.
I laugh, but then pause and look off to the side to really consider her question. Huh. I’m actually not. I haven’t smoked since this morning, which, sadly, is rare for me. I’m in the habit of bookending my academics with a little herbal help. I didn’t even consider it this afternoon. I was too excited aboutnow.
“I’m totally straight. But if you want,” I tease, pretending I have a joint in my bag.
“Maybe next time.” She laughs.
Brooklyn stretches my black workout shorts out in front of her, eyeing them.
“They’re small on me. I don’t wear them anymore, and I thought if you rolled them . . .”
“The size is fine,” she says in a hushed tone. She chews at her top lip as her gaze skims the fabric.
“I won’t watch you change. I promise,” I say, crossing my heart.
She breathes out a faint laugh and flits her gaze to me.
“I know you wouldn’t. I trust you,” she says.
She trusts me.
“Is it . . . water? From the accident? I didn’t even think. Brooky, I’m so sorry. This was a dumb idea.” I reach for the shorts, but she hugs them to her chest, her eyes trained just below mine.
“It’s not that. I promise. It’s . . .” She squints and tightens her mouth, her sudden reluctance this palpable feeling that resonates with me. I was in her shoes merely twenty-four hours ago when I told her about my dad.
“Whatever it is, it’s all right. You don’t have to tell me. Unless you want to. And we don’t have to do this . . . unless you want to.”
“I don’t show my skin,” she blurts out. Her gaze darts to mine then flits away again as she mashes her lips together nervously.
“Brooklyn, you are beautiful. I’ve seen you in a bikini I’m pretty sure, and not to make you blush, but—woo!” I fan myself as her stare comes back to me. Her mouth inches up on one side for a split second before falling back to her chin.
“I’m not like I was,” she confesses.
On instinct, I scan her body, following every perfect and beautiful angle from the tip of her nose down to her ankles and back up again.
“Brooky,” I sigh. “You’re perfect.”
Her eyes soften, then scan to her left as her mouth twists in indecision.
“I swear I won’t look. I won’t even let my vision dip below your neck if you don’t want it to.”Which will be hard because staring at every beautiful goddamn piece of her has been my silent pastime from afar for years.
“Let me change,” she squeaks out.
I turn my back to her.
