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I nod eagerly.
“I need to hear more about this Rainbow Warrior jacket. I need to know about the jacket. Jacket. Jeff Gordon Jacket. Born August 4th, 1971, in Pittsboro, Indiana. 93 wins, most second-place finishes. Brought popularity back to the sport. Won four Winston cups. 1995, 1997, 1998, and 2001—”
“Alright, Col,” I interrupt, walking him towards the bathroom. “Keep the facts for later. Let's get you in the shower and wash this mop.”
“It’s not a mop, DD. It’s my hair. Not a mop. I like my hair,” he says, wiping it off his forehead after I lovingly messed it up. “Makes Colin feel like a man. A burly man.”
I chuckle at his strange comment, then ask, “DD?”
He’s never called me that before. I cock my head at him, but he slips behind the bathroom door before I get any answers.
Two hours later, I'm anxiously gazing at the black screen on my phone. I thought for sure I'd receive a call by now. Lake would've called Coach back after dropping me off, only to call back within minutes, reassuring me he only needed to talk with him about his timeline of return.
But no. No call. Just a blank black screen. Screaming obscenities at me. My regrets are burning a hole through the linoleum counter on which my phone lies.
Adding a finishing layer of lip gloss, I adjust my blue high-necked cable-knit sweater dress and flip my long hair over my shoulder. Hearing a loud commotion in the room over, I drop my gloss and run to Colin's room.
He's throwing cars from his shelves, clothes from the hangers in the closet, and fidgets fly from his drawer through the air. A toy car flies past my head and hits the wall behind me as I yell, “Colin! What are you doing?!”
“My yellow pocket pop-it. Pocket pop-it. Where's the pocket pop-it?”
Lucky for me, I see it on the edge of his dresser. Grabbing it, I help him up off the floor, where his feet are tangled in a pile of clothing from his closet.
“I'd say this was a lucky find,” I say, placing the yellow pocket pop-it against his chest. The one he needs in case he gets extra stimulated today. “But we make our own luck around here, don't we?”
He holds the pocket fidget in his hand, staring down at the mess he made as he nods and paces. A knock at the door has us both turning our heads.
He can’t be here already. Why didn’t he call?
I give Colin a quick rub on the back before walking towards the door. I tuck my hair behind my ear, pausing to take a quick breath before placing my hand on the door.
“Let him in, Pickle,” Colin says behind me, standing in the doorframe of his bedroom, staring at the door.
I let the air out of my lungs, feeling as if my balloon of anxiety is finally releasing some, before opening the door and letting it fill all over again.
There he stands.
I can hardly breathe as I fix on him. He's devastatingly handsome. My eyes trail from his stylish leather sneakers, making their way up the dark jeans that conform to his thick, muscular thighs to the slim waist that makes me swallow. His tight white V-neck t-shirt is a bright contrast to the tanned skin peeking out beneath. The black, brown, and blue sweater he wears over it somehow brings out all the colors of him. His rich coffee-colored hair, and we can't forget those eyes.
“S-stop staring. Say hi,” Colin says behind me.
I turn my head, throwing him a bratty look, before turning back to see a lopsided grin on Lake's face.
“You look...beautiful,” he whispers, eyes washing over me.
I've never been the type to want to be called beautiful. Never needed that. I wanted to be called strong, intelligent, caring. But Lake's already called me all of those things. He's already addressed that I'm more to him than just a physical appearance, more than a pretty face, so him calling me beautiful now feels better than ever. He makes me feel everything. So much. So hard.
My bottom lip feels the pain of my teeth digging into it, so I release it and walk forward, wrapping my arms around his neck and pressing my chest against his.
He's a little taken aback by my forwardness in front of my brother but wraps his arms around my lower waist, holding me to him tightly, regardless. I lean up on my tiptoes, my lips just barely reaching his, and give him a quick, soft kiss. His lips curve into a smile and the feeling of those butterflies in my gut has me on the verge of passing out from the sudden dizziness.
My nerves are on fire, but I'm not sure if it's from our connection or the information he's about to tell me. I need to know before we start this day. I need answers before I can even feel the proper anxiety I’m supposed to feel meeting the mother of the man I’ve fallen for.
“News?” I ask softly.
“None,” he whispers back, his smile fading.
My brows pinch together. “None?”
