“Other than what you said—how Charlie’s setting you and Jack up to kill the Oslie rumor—no,” Maximoff tells me while Ripley slaps the water ecstatically.
When I told Maximoff about the “set up”, I made sure to leave out the part about Charlie calling me lonely.
“But honest-to-God,” Maximoff continues, “I think it’s more than that. I know my cousin, and this colossal undertaking—being filmed day-to-day for who knows how long—doesn’t sound like something he’d do just to squash a rumor.”
“Oui,” Jane Cobalt says, swimming closer since she overheard us talking about her brother. Cat-eye sunglasses cover her blue eyes, and she adjusts the straps of her pastel purple tankini. “Charlie has other motives, most surely.”
“As Charlie’s bodyguard, I agree with that assessment,” I say with the sip of my beer.
Farrow makes an uncertain face. “He could just be 5D chess-ing this show into his version of The Bachelor.”
“It is his favorite show,” Jane muses.
Charlie is a bunch of contradictions. Whatever moves he is making, they’ll be what he said: selfish and selfless. Oxymorons to the tenth degree.
My phone buzzes, and my pulse jolts with too much fucking excitement. I grab my phone.
“Da-da,” Ripley giggles, trying to swim to Farrow who plays peek-a-boo, using his inked hand to shield his face. Maximoff has their son loosely in his hold, but the baby can already float too well.
I read the text.
K. See you tomorrow at 8 am. – Highland
Curt.
To the point. No compliments or ego boosts. Definitely not Jack. But I’m not dumb enough to think he had his friend or little brother message me on his behalf. He’s just responding in the same cold tone.
I stifle a dismal groan.
Estou morrendo de saudade.
“He’s reupholstering the limo, Moffy,” Jane says, more hushed but audible. “He just replaced the interior last year. I’m telling you my dad knows that Thatcher and I had sex in the backseat.”
Cobalt drama is like a Cool Ranch Dorito. It makes me happy inside, and I’ll gladly take anything right now. Especially Thatcher, my lead, fucking his fiancée in his future father-in-law’s limo. Look, I’d pay good money to see Connor Cobalt’s reaction.
“Your dad can’t know that, Janie,” Maximoff refutes. “He wasn’t there, and none of us would’ve said a damn thing.”
“Hey guys,” Sulli calls over, breaking up some good harmless drama. “You all wanna play?”
I sit out.
Not feeling the “team sports” spirit today.
And I crack open my book while Quinn, Luna, and Maximoff face off Akara, Sulli, and Banks. I place a bet with Donnelly and put a twenty on Sulli’s team.
Music pumps, an “SFO” playlist. We all added songs, and right now, Cher’s “Believe” blasts which is causing Farrow to grimace.
Cher was my addition.
I grin.
And ten minutes through, I look up and slowly turn a page.
“I got it,” Sulli calls out, competitive because the volleyball is soaring towards six-foot-seven Banks. He spikes the ball as she slams into his chest. “Oh, fuck—sorry, sorry.”
“It’s alright.” He combs back his wet hair. Her eyes fall down Moretti’s body, and the volleyball sails back on their side. Somehow poor, poor Sullivan Meadows ends up elbowing Akara in the abs. He buckles, and she apologies profusely.
“I’m okay, Sul.”
I watch the dumpster fire for another five minutes. Sulli keeps running into Banks and Akara’s wet bare chests, bodies and limbs colliding left and right, and the more they do, the more flustered she’s becoming. Her breath looks shortened, and I’d bet a crisp hundred it’s not from physical activity.
“You see that?” I ask Farrow beside me; his son is on his lap, playing with his silver rings. But even though Farrow has been watching the volleyball match, his eyes are more glued to his husband.
“Who?”
I explain and he shakes his head, “Not my business.”
“I don’t know how you do it, bro.” It’s not my business either, but it’s in my face and I see it. So give me the popcorn.
We watch as Sulli climbs out of the pool, dripping water, after her team loses the game 4 to 21. She darts to the platter of grilled food, avoiding Akara and Banks still in the pool.
From a lounge chair, Donnelly makes a cha-ching motion to me. He’s been eating a burger.
Not upset I lost a bet, I’m about to return to The Grapes of Wrath when Akara reaches for his phone and asks, “Hey, everyone, is it okay if I invite Jack over for lunch?”
I solidify.
Kitsuwon. He cannot do this to me right now. His friendship with Jack is going to fucking kill me. I imagine Jack strutting in and smiling that hundred-watt smile as he says, “Beautiful people” to everyone—and I can’t.
Not today.
Not now. Not when I’m setting boundaries tomorrow.
“We love Jack; of course you can invite him,” Jane says, sitting across Thatcher’s lap on a chair.
My head dizzies, and I skate a hand down my mouth.
I feel Farrow and Donnelly eyeing the living fuck out of me.
Come on, Oliveira. I go to speak, but breath is tight in my chest.
“Nah,” Donnelly says coolly. “There’s not enough food.”
“There’s plenty here,” my brother pipes in with knotted brows.
Farrow opens his mouth, about to slingshot another excuse, but I locate my vocal cords. Loudly, I declare to everyone, “I’d rather not see Highland right now.”
The rooftop deadens, except for Ripley babbling in his dad’s arms and the music speakers blaring “Chega” by DUDA BEAT, Mateus Carrilho, and Jaloo. Another of my song additions.
“Did something happen?” Akara questions, actually concerned.
Absolutely love Kitsuwon as my boss. I’d move mountains for Akara. He cares and would put his ass over hot coals for my ass, so I’d do it for him. Not all men I’ve worked under in security were like that.
Did something happen?
I bake under embarrassment and the sun. “Yeah.” I pick myself off the patio. “I made a mistake and asked to kiss a straight guy.”
The Moretti brothers, plus my little brother, and Akara stare dumbfounded and shocked.
Way too many people know now about the rejection.
But there’s no turning
