The other mitt trembles in Mom’s grasp. "I won’t tolerate that kind of talk in this house."
"Chill." Liam holds in hands up in mock-surrender. "I won’t say anything more, promise."
"You’re supposed to set an example for your younger brother!"
"Okay," he grimaces. "I’ll behave."
Annoyed, Mom returns to cooking, her cheeks bright-red with fury. It’s best to leave her alone when she’s like this. I blame my stupid brother. He wasn’t supposed to be here, but decided on the spur of the moment that he was going to spend Christmas with the family. We get along—sort of. When he isn’t texting me juvenile gifs, he’s teaching at a college. I like to think his job keeps him in a regressive state.
Unlike him, I’ve moved on from being an asshole. "I wish you’d occasionally give me the benefit of the doubt."
Liam snorts.
Mom tips scrambled eggs onto a platter, nose flaring. She’s like a bloodhound for bullshit. She should’ve worked in the FBI, because I have never, ever been able to get anything past her. Silently, she doles out food.
Mouth full of piping hot eggs and bacon, I avoid her lie detector eyes. But for once I don’t have to. "Nothing happened."
"Hmph!" Mom’s lips are thinned to a white line. A dangerous growl rolls from her throat. "If I find out you’ve been unkind to that girl after everything she’s been through, I’ll—"
"Oh my God. We just talked. That’s it."
"Swear on my head!"
"I swear!" I’ve been on trial with my mother ever since high school. I don’t blame her for being suspicious. Lord knows, she had it rough raising two boys alone, and I didn’t exactly make it easy for her.
Every other week, I was called into the principal office. There were complaints from other parents. Many nights, Mom would cry herself to sleep. I mellowed out, but the guilt stayed with me like a chest cold. That doesn’t hand-wave all the shit I’ve done, but my record has been squeaky clean. You think she’d cut me some slack.
"I saw you singing with Gigi."
I laugh, and even Liam joins in. "Is that a crime now?"
"Ronan, you carried her. A room full of my guests watch you sweep her off her feet and stumble outside."
"She was drunk. Jesus." Mom smacks me over the head. "Sorry—I wanted to make sure she got home okay."
Mom’s eyes narrow. "She lives next door."
"It was wet outside, and she was wasted. She could’ve cracked her head open."
Suspicious, Mom faces the living room. "Are you buying this?"
"Sure," Liam deadpans, sounding bored. "Who cares?"
"Honest to God, I was helping her."
After a few tense seconds, a smile broadens Mom’s face. "Okay, hon. I believe you, and I won’t say anymore about it."
"Good." I smear toast with salted butter, face burning. "She just got dumped. Why would I be an ass?"
Wearing a thoughtful look, Mom pours a mug of coffee. "Maybe you should keep her company."
"Sorry—what?"
"Gigi’s mom is visiting friends out of state for the weekend. I’m sure she’d appreciate it if someone was watching out for Gigi."
First I’m a villain—now I’m a shoulder to cry on. I wish she’d pick a side, already. "That’s probably a bad idea."
"I agree—with Mom," Liam chimes from the living room. "It’s the least you can do."
Clearly, he’s forgotten he was an accomplice to many of my pranks. "I don’t think she’s interested."
"If the trouble between you two is over, what’s the problem? I’m not asking you to date the girl—just take her out. Show her a good time. Don’t let her fester in that house with thoughts of her ex."
It’s not like I mind. It was hard enough saying goodbye as Gigi clung to my arms, lips parted for a kiss. She was too drunk, but if she hadn’t been I would’ve marched her straight to my room.
Somehow the awkward girl turned into a bombshell-in-distress. Maybe she’d turn all those messy, unrequited love feelings toward me. She might even use me as a rebound. It’d be fun and convenient.
"Fine. I’ll try." I keep my face neutral, but Mom smolders.
Swear to God, bloodhound.
"She’s not your plaything, Ronan. I’m asking you as a favor to me. Do this girl a kindness for once in your life."
"I won’t touch her." Unless she wants me to.
"Good. Now finish your breakfast."
Mom returns to the pile of dishes next to the sink. I roll my eyes at her back, even though her request is growing on me. Keep Gigi company. Shouldn’t be too hard, considering she’s next door.
"Maybe I’ll take her to a football game."
Liam chortles. "Something she’s interested in, all right."
Pitching date ideas will be hard. I barely know Gigi. I strain my memory to high school, trying to remember. I used to mock her for joining the anime club. God, I was such a piece of shit.
A text chimes from my phone. I glance at the screen.
Lance: Wut up, dawg? U in town yet? We should hang.
I grimace. Not him.
Me: Yeah. At my mom’s. Having breakfast rn.
Lance: Is it cool if I cum over? Lolz
Rolling my eyes, I type a response, wishing I could flat out ignore the guy. Lance was my best friend in high school. We parted ways when I was offered a full ride to Northwestern. We were both on the team, but only I earned a scholarship. He screwed up his senior year with binge drinking. He missed too many games. Last I heard, he attended Stonehaven Community College, dropped out, and got a job at the local Chili’s. He’s been bartending there ever since.
"Is it okay if Lance comes over?"
"I don’t like that boy. He’s always been a bad influence."
"It’ll be quick." A glance at his Facebook timeline displays a man-child gone to seed. "I know you’re not a fan."
"Fine," she grinds out. "But remember what I said about Gigi."
"Yeah, yeah."
Me: Shoot hoops at my place?
Lance: Sweet. B there in ten.
* * *
My basketball skates the rim, hugging the net as it swoops down. It smacks the pavement, bouncing down the driveway.
I throw my hands up. "Goal!"
Lance scratches his patchy beard that’s way too long and doesn’t suit him. If we were closer, I’d tell him to shave that shit off his face, but right now it feels like kicking a brother while he’s down.
Fifteen minutes into our game, Lance is panting. And he’s pretending not to be cold. He showed up to my door in high socks and shorts and a t-shirt. It’s in the mid forties. I’m wearing a long sleeve and pants, and I’m cold. My ears fucking ache.
But we pretend as though we’re enjoying this. I’m definitely not. Lance isn’t a good enough opponent and, at this point, I’m going easy on him to spare his feelings. That’s the kind of guy I’ve become. Someone who doesn’t crush the little guy, against every instinct.
I lob the ball at the garage door, not even trying. It makes a loud bang. Lance hoots at my mistake, takes an obscene time to line a shot, misses, shoots again, and finally scores.
He screams, puffing out his chest. "In your face!"
"Yeah." I hitch my breathing as though he got the better of me. "Nice goal."
"This is great. I can’t tell you how long it’s been since I’ve done this." He sinks another shot. "Thanks for inviting me, man."
He’s having fun. I guess that’s one of us. "So what are you up to? Still bartending?"
"Yep." He wipes his streaming nose. "I’m thinking of going back to school. Working at a restaurant sucks the life out of you."
"That blows."
"Dude, catch!"
The ball sails past my ear as he makes a pass. It bounces across the driveway into Gigi’s, slamming against the wall.
"Shit! Be careful!"
"Sorry." He chuckles, realization dawning on his face. "Oh, I just remembered. Doesn’t that chick live next door?"
> Goddamn it. "Who?"
Hands on his hips, he stares at me. "You know, Good Girl."
"Oh, her." I don’t like my nickname for her rolling off his lips. "Yeah, she does."
"Hooooly shit. Do you remember that prank we pulled in elementary?"
"Yes." I sink three effortless balls with Lance watching, but it doesn’t distract him.
"We were such assholes back then, but damn that was funny."
"Not so funny, in hindsight."
He releases an exaggerated sigh. "We were kids. Hey, want to get a drink at The Station later?"
No. "Can’t. Got errands to run for my mom."
Lance runs a hand through his mane of unkempt hair. "Look at you, Momma’s boy."
He doesn’t catch the ball and it hurls straight into Gigi’s garage. It makes the door shudder. Lance doubles over, laughing.
"You freaking idiot." I tuck the ball under my arm.
"You’re the one who can’t throw! Oh shit. Someone’s coming."
The front door to Gigi’s house flies open. Wrapped in a thick, blue robe, Gigi steps outside in fluffy sandals. Pale morning light washes her in soft, golden hues. Though she must be freezing, she makes a beeline for me.
"Do you realize what time it is?" she snaps. "It’s nine-thirty."
"Morning, Gigi. You feeling okay?"
She blinks, disarmed by my politeness. "Fine."
"How much do you remember from last night?"
Pink patches rise to her cheeks. "Everything."
I wonder if she remembers wrapping her arms around my neck, head tipped back onto her pillow, begging me with her eyes to kiss her. I almost did. Nothing ever looked as tantalizing as Gigi’s half-open pout.
"Something happened didn’t it?" Lance looks from Gigi to me in delight. "Ohhhh shiiiit."
Gigi flinches. "Nothing happened. And I’d appreciate it if you stopped slamming balls into my house."
Nothing, huh? "My bad. It was an accident."
Lance’s high-pitched laughter suddenly rings out. "Dude—you and the Good Girl—you have to tell me everything."
Gigi crosses her arms over her mouth-watering bust. "Tell your friend to shut up."
I’ve played this game a dozen times with dozens of women to know she’s only arguing for an excuse to talk to me.
I swing toward Lance. "You heard the woman."
Lance chuckles, and her acidic glare flickers to him. "Oh, it’s you."
He cringes from her disdain. "Nice to see you too, bi—ow!" Lance stumbles from the ball I throw into his stomach. "What the hell?"
I grab it before it bounces into the street. "Don’t insult my neighbor."
With a final roll of her eyes, Gigi turns around. "Keep the noise down."
"Yeah, whatever," Lance bursts. "It’s a free country and he’s allowed to play basketball."
Halfway to the front door, she whirls around. "Then hold down the screaming to a minimum. Please."
A bewildered Lance watches me nod. "Sure thing."
An equally puzzled Gigi searches me before returning to her house. I don’t want her to go. I’d rather Lance fucked off my lawn than see the back of her, but I can’t chase her while he’s still here.
Why?
We have nothing in common except a decade of open warfare. She always hated me and I never did anything to make her life easier. That was before she wore confidence like a second skin and became the hottest woman in my world. I’d be stupid not to ask her out. I should do it soon, before she forgets how hot and bothered she was last night.
"Sure thing?" Lance grabs my arm, sneering. "When did you become such a pussy?"
I could launch into Gigi’s personal drama, but it’s not my story to tell and it wouldn’t impress the idiot, anyway. Honestly, I just want him off my back.
So I tell him what he wants to hear. "The day I decided I’m banging Good Girl."
Gigi
"Are you sure you’ll be okay?"
Mom’s concerned gaze traps me into a battle of wills. She fidgets with her purse and keys, acting like I’m twelve and it’s the first time she’s leaving me alone.
"I think I can handle a couple of nights by myself." Counting to ten, I force my voice to stay level. "You need to stop hovering."
She glances outside, standing by the door. An Uber driver patiently waits by the curb.
"I can’t help it. I’m your mom."
If I had a nickel every time I’ve heard that. "And I love you for caring so much, but I’ll. Be. Fine. Seriously."
She clutches her Kate Spade bag, fingers whitened from her grip. "I know you’re made of stronger stuff than I am, but I think losing James will hit you hard. I want to be there for you when it does."
"Nothing’s hitting me. I am glad the engagement is over. Go before your Uber leaves."
An angry chime splits the silence, and Mom glances at the screen. "You know I’d never leave you, right? I wouldn’t, but Claire’s having a hard time without John. It’s her first Christmas without—"
"Yeah, yeah." I wave her off. "Go outside!"
She does, pausing at the threshold. "Promise me you’ll do something. Don’t just sit here all day and watch TV—"
"I will. Go!"
Halfway down the driveway, she pauses again. Ignoring the impatient honks of the driver, she implores me to get a Christmas tree and call her if I need anything.
The chill rolls over my bare feet, and I shut the door. Wrapped in my robe, I sink into the couch. My fingers curl into the warm throw as the car drives away.
Everyone thinks I’m on the verge of a meltdown, but they didn’t know my ex. Sure, to the untrained eye he was a catch. A hedge fund heir who invested a large sum of money into an artisanal organic soda company. It boomed into a thriving business that could probably support us and two kids, provided he played his cards right. But the spark was never there.
He was fine. Better than fine, really, but our relationship had fizzled out before we were engaged. If I’m upset, it’s because everyone keeps rubbing in the fact that I’m alone.
You must be devastated.
He dumped you on Christmas.
Poor you.
Over and over.
I flip through television channels, annoyed by the jingle of Christmas music. Earlier, carolers sang from the street. The music filled me with a rage I didn’t understand.
A fist knocks the door. I freeze. It knocks again.
More carolers? Cursing this overly friendly neighborhood, I plaster a smile on my face and answer the door.
"Hey."
Ronan looks just as hot as when I caught him shooting hoops with Lance. A charcoal, cashmere sweater makes his eyes pop. They’re a sapphire blue, just like his mom’s. A fresh scent wafts from his skin, the same one that clung to my shirt when I woke up bundled in my bed.
He humiliated you, remember?
I seize the door, preparing to slam it shut. "What is it?"
"I wanted to apologize for what Lance said. He’s an idiot."
I won’t lie. Seeing my former tormenter so out-of-shape, hunched over and pathetic was nice. "And yet you still keep his company. Birds of a feather."
"Yeah, well. I’m not a fan of the guy, but we go way back."
I’m not interested in his bromance. "What do you want?"
"Can I come inside?" He rubs his flushed hands.
"Sure." If I’d known he was coming, I would’ve run a comb through my damned hair. "Uh—do you want some tea?"
Please don’t.
He brightens. "Yeah, sure."
Annoyed, I fill the kettle. Then I turn the burners on, hoping he’ll be gone before it whistles.
Ronan strolls into the kitchen as though he’s been here a thousand times, moving with a careless ease that I wholeheartedly envy. I bang two mugs onto the counter, and when I turn he’s staring at me.
A pulse throbs in my neck. "So…why are you here?"
"Just wanted to see what you were up to, I guess."
"Okay." I rake my head, almost forgetting the tea when the kettle screams. "Mom told me to buy a Christmas tree, so I’ll probably get that over with today."
"Perfect. Let’s go."
I chortle, pouring him a mug of peppermint tea. "You’re not invited."
"How the hell are you going to chop down a tree?" He seizes my bicep, squeezing. "You’re too dainty."
"Who says I’m chopping one?" I shrug, moving my cup to the table. "I’ll probably just go to Target and buy the cheapest thing there—what? It’s just a tree."
Ronan releases my arm as a flood of heat fills my cheeks.
"You obviously don’t know the difference, so I’ll tell you. Freshly cut trees are way better than that plastic crap from a store. They smell better. They look real because they are real." Ronan jerks his head toward the door. "Come on. I’ll cut it down for you."
"What’s your angle?" I peer at his chiseled features. "You don’t have to do anything for me."
"Maybe I feel bad for being such a prick during high school."
I’m not buying it, but who am I to turn down free labor?
"Fine, but this doesn’t make us even."
* * *
A battered cardboard sign with streaking black ink advertises Newman’s Christmas Trees. Hanging lights illuminate a row of decapitated trees. Ronan turns into the lot, parking next to a family. Kids chase each other as their father ties the tree to the roof of their dinky car.
I step outside when Ronan cuts the engine. "You do this every year?"
"We used to when Dad was around." Ronan locks the car, a sad smile playing on his lips. "When he left, Mom just used the same plastic thing year after year, until it fell apart."
I tense at the anger winding his voice, reminded of my nine-year-old self’s shock at the cheerful boy next door suddenly turning sullen. No matter how hard Ronan tried to hide his pain, I knew his dickish behavior manifested from a very hurt place. Part of it, at least.
Ronan leans on the car, shaking his head as though it’ll dislodge the bitterness. "Anyway, then Liam got a job in retail, and he started buying the trees." He opens his trunk, grabbing the axe. "Come on."
Jingle Balls Page 3