by McKinley May
She scoffs. “Not really.”
“Totally different, Raynie. One’s somebody crying about seven years of bad luck because they broke a fucking mirror, and the other is creating a positive mindset and outlook for a game.”
Her mouth twists at one corner as she thinks about it.
“Look at it this way,” I continue. “Alot of superstitious shit is based on accepting your fate, right? Like, you happen to come across a black cat and you're like shit, guess I'm gonna have an unlucky day. It's stupid. But pre-game rituals are all about having control over your fate, getting you in the mood for your match. I don’t seriously think they affect the outcome of my play, but it’s a good ‘get-your-head-in-the-game’ type of thing.”
I see her eyes roll as she chuckles. “Alright, humor me. What’s your pre-game ritual?”
“Always put on my left cleat before my right one.”
“Boringgggg,” she teases.
“Hey, sometimes simple is best. My first attempt at a pre-game ritual wasn’t so great.”
She looks intrigued. “What was it?”
“When I was a freshman in high school, I had this giant, greasy fast food meal before my first varsity game and ended up scoring a hat trick. I decided I needed to eat that before every match. Yeah, I realized that first time was a total fluke when I was puking on the sidelines fifteen minutes into our next game.”
“You totally deserved that,” she says as she cringes. “Who the hell thinks fast food and soccer go together?”
“Fifteen year old me, apparently.” I smooth a hand down her hair. “What about you? You really didn’t do anything before volleyball games?”
“Nope. Unlike you, I could rely solely on talent instead of rituals.”
“Rude, Raynie.” I poke her in the ribs and she squeals as she swats my hand away. She looks thoughtful for a moment.
“Some of my teammates had a few rituals. The worst was a girl who never washed her lucky knee pads. And those things were freaking rank.”
“Oh, shit,” I say as that reminds me of something. “You met Victor tonight, right?”
She tilts her head. “I think so. Kinda short, black hair?”
I nod. “Yeah, that’s him. Last year he didn’t wash his uniform throughout the entire post season. His jersey reeked so fucking much we wouldn’t even let him bring it in the locker room. I can’t even describe the way it smelled—it was that horrible.” I shudder at the unpleasant olfactory memories. “It was so bad, Rayne.”
She looks disgusted and glances down worriedly at my jersey that she’s got on.
“Don’t make that face, babe. I get that thing dry-cleaned.”
I gave her my home jersey to wear after she showered earlier, and I'm seriously considering ordering another one so she can strut around in this 24/7. The sheen, white fabric swallows her up, the sleeves going down to her elbows and the hem reaching her mid-thigh.
I finger the fabric and pull her closer. “Have I told you how fucking sexy you look in my jersey?”
“Only about a hundred times.” She bites down on her lip and smiles. “But a few more won’t hurt.”
“You. Look. Fucking. Sexy.” I softly kiss her neck between each growled out word. “And you’re all mine.”
I’m sneaking a hand up under the jersey when a massive gust of wind blows us sideways, swaying us high into the air.
“Jeez,” she comments. “Is there a storm blowing in?”
Before I can answer, another burst of wind hits us, increasing the pace of our swing. I stick my leg out, attempting to use my foot to slow us down.
Rayne grips the netting and frowns. “Vaughn, I don’t know if that’s a good ide—”
And, yep, it’s not a good idea, because I offset our balance and the hammock flips upside down, hurling us off in an instant.
We topple over, crashing onto the soft ground below as both of us laugh like lunatics. We're lying next to one another in the thick grass, still cracking up when I see Rayne slide a hand under her lower back in my peripheral.
“Ow, babe. I think I broke my back.” She laughs as she tucks her other hand behind her head. “And my neck.”
I shake my head. “Fucking drama queen.”
She pouts. “We’ll see how dramatic you think I am when you get the invoice for my physical therapy bill!”
I chuckle as I roll to the side, propping myself up on my forearms over the top of her. I’m about to give her some more crap when I see tears spilling down her face. My stomach immediately drops.
“Shit, baby. Are you crying? I thought you were joking.” I reach behind her neck and cup my hand around hers. “Are you okay? How bad does it hurt?”
A wide smile spreads across her face, but tears are still pouring from her eyes, and I’m sitting here panicked and incredibly confused.
“I’m fine, Vaughn,” she insists. “I’m crying from laughing so hard.”
I reach a hand out and wipe the tears from one of her cheekbones. “You scared me.”
I move to the other cheek, using the pad of my thumb to softly wipe away the wetness.
When I pull my hand away, I see her. Golden-brown hair spilled out in the grass, clear eyes wet and glistening as they blink up at me, freckles lighting up like little embers underneath the flickering flame of a nearby tiki torch.
And then she gives me a sweet, loving smile that freaking melts my heart, and all I want to do is stay right here for the rest of my damn life.
I lean down and kiss each cheekbone, tasting the salty remenants of her tears. I kiss the tip of her nose, the curve of her jaw, the dip of her adorable cupid's bow. I kiss every beautiful portion of her face before she laughs and cups both of my cheeks, pulling me down until my lips mold against hers.
It’s different from other kisses we’ve shared before. It’s gentle and tender, a kiss focused solely on giving, a display of pure feeling. My chest tightens and my heartbeat skyrockets as we breathe one another in, savoring the moment.
And at first I can smell fresh cut grass, hear the concert of crickets, feel the strong breeze blowing through the hair on my arms, but all of that slowly fades away until the only thing I can sense is us...is her.
It’s so fucking crazy how just a few months ago I hadn’t even known Rayne, didn’t even realize it was possible to have feelings like I’ve been experiencing since I met her. With the amount of shit life has thrown at me, she’s been a beam of shining light in the darkness I’ve been drowning in, guiding my way to the surface, bringing me back to life again.
The realization of what’s happening washes over me like a goddamn tsunami.
I’m falling in love with this girl.
27
“You’re living the dream, Rayne.”
Lexie’s on her knees in front of the biggest suitcase I’ve ever seen, folding clothes as neatly as she can and stuffing them into packing bags while I fill her in on the party last night. She squeezes the excess air out of a full bag and looks up at me, a cloudy haze in her eyes. “You’ve got what most people wish for their whole lives: a true partner, your other half, the love of your life.”
I snort at her plethora of clichés as I hand her another pile of clothes. “Let’s not go crazy here. We can't toss around the L-word just yet. I mean, we’ve only been dating for eight days. The only people who throw out that word so soon into the relationship are thirteen-year-olds confusing their newly activated hormones for true love.”
Lexie tilts her head, a new streak of purple near the front framing her heart-shaped face and complementing the bright green flecks in her eyes. “First of all, although you’ve only been ‘official’ for a week, you two have been falling for one another since you met the first week of school. Don’t even try to deny it.”
She lifts a highlighter yellow sports bra in one hand and a deep maroon one in the other, brows raised in silent questioning. I tip my chin to select the yellow one, and she nods as she tosses the reject over her head. “Secondly, can you even pu
t a time frame on something as abstract as love? It can’t truly be measured or counted or quantified. It’s a spiritual feeling, really, so who’s to say what the time requirements are for it to be present?”
I grin. “Okay, Miss Philosopher. That sounds exactly like something my mom would say.”
She barely seems to hear me as she delves deeper into her love lecture. “It’s not like love won’t bloom until it’s been exactly four months or whatever amount of time people deem ‘acceptable’ to use the word. If it’s there, it’s there. You don’t just deny it so you won’t seem like a crazy person. You admit it, you embrace it.”
She frowns, seemingly snapping out of her love daze. “I have no idea what deep, untouched, cobweb-filled portion of my brain that came from. Love and I don’t mix. I prefer the fun, noncommittal part of relationships.” She shakes her head before mumbling, “Must still be drunk from Drinkin’ Down Dublin..”
Even though she may not have any first hand experience with the subject, I think over her words and realize she might be right. I’m not some lovestruck teenager; I’m an adult and old enough to know the difference between infatuation and something that’s real.
And the feelings that were bubbling inside of me last night when we kissed?
Those sure as hell felt real.
Lexie’s manly grunts as she sits on top of her suitcase bring me back to the task at hand. I sit next to her, using all of my body weight to get it to shut over the abundance of crap she stuffed inside.
“Is there a reason you’re bringing your entire closet on your medical trip?” I grab the side zipper and attempt to tug it towards the center.
Technically Fall Break starts Wednesday after classes, but Lexie’s leaving tomorrow to fly to Ghana for a medical trip sponsored by Windhaven. Only a select handful of pre-med students were chosen to attend, and of course Rockstar Lexie was at the top of the list. The trip’s only a few days long, but you’d think she was leaving for a freaking month based on the size of this thing.
She lets out another small grunt as she yanks the zipper on her side of the suitcase.
“Well, the Ghana trip is over on Thursday, and I recently decided to spend the rest of break skiing in Park City.” Her cheeks and chest flush pink from the force with which she’s tugging on that zipper, and I’m afraid it’s going to snap straight off. “So I’ve got one trip in the humid heat of Africa and the other in the snowy mountains of Utah, meaning I have to bring both warm and cold weather gear and try to stuff all that shit into this stupid suitcase. Not an easy task, obviously.”
This is the first I’ve heard about the Utah trip, but her spontaneity doesn’t surprise me in the least.
“Who’s the guy?” I question as we finally pull the two zippers together, the monstrous bag bulging but definitely shut.
She widens her eyes innocently “Who’s what guy?”
I shoot her a knowing glance. “The one who invited you on the trip. I know you didn’t just decide to go with a bunch of girls.”
With Lexie, there’s always a boy at the root.
She laughs. “Fine, fine. His name is Henry, and I met him in a study group a few weeks ago. He’s so damn cute, and it should be a fun time with all his friends. There’s a bunch of us going: five girls and five guys.” Her face illuminates. “Hey, you should come with! I’m sure I could find you an inexpensive ticket online. I’m the queen of hunting down cheap airline seats.”
I keep my face neutral, not wanting my expression to reveal what I think of that suggestion. I know she’s trying to be sweet, but spending my Fall Break with a group of people I’ve never met before—and as a what? Eleventh wheel?— sounds like a nightmare scenario.
I give her a weary smile. “While that sounds…great, I’m actually going home to see my family. I appreciate the offer, though.” I tilt my head. “Are you not going home at all this break?”
She shakes her head as she picks at her bubblegum pink luggage tag. “Nah, I’ll probably be stuck there all winter break, and that’s more than enough for me.” An awkward silence falls between us, and I know better than to pry further.
When it comes to Lexie and her family there are some major issues there, but we haven’t discussed it much. All I know is that her entire family is made up of intelligent and successful doctors; her dad’s a renowned orthopedic surgeon, her mom’s a celebrity dermatologist, and her two older sisters are currently finishing up their respective residencies. Seems like attending medical school is an expectation in her family, and she definitely has some big shoes to fill.
Lexie perks her head up and changes the subject. “Is Vaughn going home for break? He lives really close to you, right? Are you guys going to hangout?” I’m about to respond to her rapid fire of questions, but her mouth won't stop moving. “Oh, you should invite him to your house if you’re both in the area! I’m sure your parents would love to meet him. And your brothers, too. Stone will go nuts if he comes over!”
The idea has already crossed my mind a few times over the past week. I’d planned on asking him last night what his plans were, but Beer Olympics distracted me.
I shrug. “I’d love for him to come, but I don’t know. You know my family. It’s complete and utter chaos in that house. And while I can appreciate and love it for what it is, I’m not sure how it’d come off to a normal person walking into the place.”
Lexie gives a dismissive wave of her hand. “I’ve been to your house dozens of times, and I think it’s amazing. Your family’s hilarious!”
“Yeah, but you’re not normal, Lex. So your analysis isn’t exactly helpful.”
“What? I’m as normal as they come.” She shoves me off the suitcase, and I respond by pulling her down with me.
I’m thankful Lexie’s weirdly obsessed with her carpet-shampooer as I lay on her fresh, floral-scented floor next to her. And then—almost as if to purposely counter her previous statement—she does some acrobatic backwards roll into a handstand, staying in the position for as long as she can before coming to an upright stance. I watch as she heaves up her suitcase and struggles to lug it over to the wall.
“You do realize that’s way over the 50 pound weight limit, right?”
She frowns and tries to lift it by the handle, testing the weight. “Shit, you’re right. I’m totally gonna be one of those people who has to bundle up in ten layers of clothing to get the weight down.”
An image of my best friend drowning in ski gear and resembling a human marshmallow in her puffy winter jacket as she waddles through the airport makes me throw my head back in laughter. “Promise me you’ll send a pic?”
She wiggles her brows. “Obviously. Prepare yourself for multiple airport bathroom mirror shots. I may even ask a TSA agent for a quick photo together.”
“Make sure to get the horrified expressions of other travelers in the background.”
“Of course.” She gives me a sly wink before walking over to her bed. “Now about your Fall Break…I personally think Vaughn would love to meet your family and see your roots. Seriously, R, he’s not going to bail because you have a wacky mom and wild little brothers.”
I sigh. “I guess you’re right.”
She grabs my phone from the top of her bedspread, tossing it to me. “Duh, I’m right. Now call and invite him before he makes other plans.”
I walk out of her room, chewing on my thumbnail and trying to determine how to ask him in the most casual manner possible. I don’t want to freak him out, already bringing up the dreaded “meet the parents” situation, but I really do want to introduce them. Plus, it’s not like I’m inviting him home with me halfway across the country. We live less than twenty miles apart—it’s more of a meeting out of convenience and proximity.
After belly flopping onto my bed, I hit recents and laugh as I see his name listed nine times in the last ten calls. There’s no denying we’re in full-on honeymoon phase.
I click his name and listen as the phone rings, wondering if he usually goes home fo
r breaks and holidays.
Almost immediately, the image of Vaughn’s pained face during our conversation at Café Cappuccino flashes through my head. His expression of disgust and hurt when we got on the topic of high school and hometowns is vivid in my mind, and guilt soars through me.
I don’t want him to feel like I’m dragging him back to relive his past. Why didn’t I consider this before?
I'm an idiot.
“Fuck,” I curse loudly right as I’m about to end the call.
“Whoa, Raynie. Usually people say ‘Hello’ or ‘Good Afternoon’.”
The smooth, familiar voice on the other end cause me to jump in surprise.
“Where the hell did you come from, Vaughn? I didn’t even hear the click that lets me know you answered!”
“That’s probably because you were screaming out ‘Fuck’ and couldn’t hear it. You need to wash that filthy mouth out with soap, babe.”
Even though I can’t see him, I know he’s smirking.
“That's rich coming from Mr. Potty Mouth himself.”
“Yeah, I'm a fucking hypocrite,” he says with a chortle. “So, what’s up?”
I wring my brain for something to say. “Um, just wanted to hear your voice?” It comes out as a question instead of a statement.
He speaks as low-toned as possible when he responds. “Well, here it is, baby.”
The deep, baritone sound causes me to crack up laughing. “Holy shit, you sound exactly like this slow jams radio DJ I used to hear in my dad’s car when I was younger. Seriously, you could be vocal twins.”