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Today’s version of me looks like a damn fool hauling ass across the parking lot, chasing a woman who fled the second I looked in her direction.
Sunday is so focused on her escape, she doesn’t hear me coming. Nor does August, but I hear him when he hisses, “How do you know Coach Morgan?”
Shoulders high and voice clipped, Sunday lies. “I don’t.”
“He said your name.”
“We gotta get your ears checked, Goose.”
“Mama—”
“August, enough.” Desperation bleeds into her voice, her movements jerky as she roots around in her purse before pulling out a set of keys. At least, I assume they’re keys. So many colorful keychains hang off the metal ring, I can’t really see anything else. “I don’t know him.”
If I were a better person, I wouldn’t contradict that final statement. If I were a more forgiving person, I’d let it go. How unfortunate for Sunday that I’m neither of those things.
“Hey, Sunday.” Mother and son freeze, only one glancing over their shoulder to frown at me. “Wait up.”
She thinks about running. I see it in the twitch of her hands, the sideways glance she casts towards the faded periwinkle Ford Bronco I assume is hers—‘cause who fuck else in Sun Valley is gonna own a purple fucking car?—and the antsy way she rocks back on her heels.
“Sunday,” I repeat, eyeing August’s fists where they ball at his sides. “Let’s talk.”
She takes her sweet time turning around. Like she thinks if she takes too long, I’ll get bored and leave. When her eyes finally meet mine, they’re steely beyond just the color, hard like her son’s, as indignant as the shake of her head. “No, thanks.”
Irritation clenches my jaw as I do a quick scan of the parking lot full of prying eyes and alert ears. “Now, please.”Before we end up splashed across another front page.
Although, that might be exactly what she wants.
“Go away,” August demands. “She doesn’t wanna talk to you.”
No? Then what is she doing here?
“Please,” I try again. “People are starting to stare.”
Turns out, those are the magic words. The anger bleeds from Sunday’s features, concern softening them, resolve hardening them again. “August, go wait in the car, please.”
“Mama.”
“August.” Sunday copies her son’s indignant whine, metal clanging as she hands over her keys. “Ten minutes.”
“Five.”
“I only need two.” My attempt at placation only earns me two narrowed gazes, so stormy I’m almost convinced to avert mine, so similar it’s a little damn creepy.
Jesus. Medusa and her fucking offspring.
August huffs. Takes a single step. Pauses. “Two minutes?”
“Two minutes,” Sunday promises, but it’s not her he’s asking. Only when I nod does the kid finally relent and leave us alone.
I don’t wait for it to become awkward. I don’t have time for that—I wasn’t lying when I said people were starting to stare. Without another word, I start towards the far end of the parking lot, knowing she’s following as I round the corner of the small shed holding all of the Select team equipment.
Just as silent, Sunday leans against the flimsy wooden structure, expression tight and expectant, hands shoved in the pockets of her overalls. Purple. Like the dress she wore that night. The last thing I need a reminder of right now. It makes it harder to be angry when I’m remembering that dress. Or what the thick hair bound in two braids looked like wild and free, how soft it felt gliding between my fingers. Or that pang in my chest; a tangled web of relief because I could be myself for once, and guilt because I was lying to the person letting me, and sick, male pride because the prettiest person in the bar was focusing all her attention on me.
I wish I could say that dark, dingy bar and the even worse lit car did her so many favors. That alcohol and an orgasm painted her in a better light than she deserved, made me remember her more beautiful than she actually is.
I can’t say that, though. Because in the daylight, I can see the flecks of green in her silvery eyes. Dusty Miller; that’s the fuzzy plant I likened them too. I Googled it the morning after I met her, when I couldn’t for the life of me get those eyes out of my head. For weeks, a fucking plant has been a constant source of irritation because in California, Dusty Miller is abundant. Because they grow their best in the sun. Look their best in the sun. Just like those fucking eyes, framed by plentiful freckles and lashes the same color as her hair and I’m getting really, really off-track because she’s so fucking pretty and I can’t stop acknowledging that. She’s so pretty, it pisses me off, and I cling to that irritation as I force myself to focus.
“So.” I start, ignoring how her throat bobs with a nervous swallow. “You follow me here?”
