“It’s just a ring box, T. No need for the dramatics.”
“But what if it’s—”
“It’s not.” I’m quick to cut her off before she can finish her thought.
“How do you know it’s not that?”
“I just do.”
“How?”
“Tessa.” My voice takes on a warning tone.
“Kayla,” she deadpans, crossing her arms. Dammit, why does hearing my real name from the Taylor siblings break me so easily?
I throw up my hands and huff. “You mean besides the fact that it’s crazy?” One of her perfectly sculpted red brows rises, as if saying Yeah, not good enough, so I try again. “This isn’t one of your books, T. Not everyone gets a happy ending.”
“Why not? Art imitates real life.”
A growl escapes before I can stop it. These damn Taylors are too stubborn for my own good. “Fine.” I cross my arms, mirroring her stance. “How about the fact that we only dated for like two months?”
“So? Doesn’t E say he knew Bette was the one the moment they met?”
Son of a bitch. This is the problem with being friends with people your whole life—they know everything.
“Fine. How about we’re still in college?”
“Again, so were Bette and E.”
Another growl. “It’s not the same, T, and you know it.”
“Fine. If it’s not an engagement ring, what are you so afraid of? Open the bag.”
I don’t want to—I so don’t want to—but as I look between Tessa and Coach Kris, I see curiosity from the former and concern from the latter reflected in their eyes. If I don’t open it now, it’ll only intensify.
Holding my breath on a deep inhalation, eyes closed, I reach into the bag. My fingers wrap around the box, my breath rushing out on contact. I pull it out and set it next to the bag, not ready for it quite yet, and reach back inside for the shirt I know is there.
There’s a piece of paper folded inside the cotton, but I put it aside to deal with later.
Pinching the shirt between my fingers, I see it’s not the one from his Instagam post, this one is a white long-sleeved scoop neck with black and red lettering and football elbow patches. I hold it up to read: My boyfriend SCORES more than yours. Bracketing the word “My” are two hearts, and the “O” in scores is a football. The lettering is black, and the hearts and football are red. And, obvs, the back bears a bold NOVA and #87.
“Oh my god.” T squeals and snatches the shirt from my hands. We are starting to reach critical levels here with the amount of Oh my gods she’s dropping. “Dude, this is like the shirt you had made for G.” She strokes the elbow patches.
“I’m pretty sure that’s where he got the idea from.”
I never did get to wear my basketball patch shirt since the day of the U of J/University of Kentucky basketball game was the same day everything changed.
“Enough stalling. Time to open the box.” T holds it out in the flat of her hand.
I shake my head. “I don’t wanna.”
“Come on, Kay. What’s in the box? What’s in the box?” she cries out, Brad Pitt in Se7en style.
I pick it up to shut her up.
My gaze flits from the box to T, back to the box.
With a deep, fortifying breath, my eyes squeeze shut and I flip the lid open.
Cracking an eyelid the barest of millimeters, I see something sparkly nestled inside black velvet.
Oh, thank god.
I was right. It’s not an engagement ring, but two new eternity bands wink back at me, one a deep emerald, CK’s birthstone—How the hell did he know that?!—and the other a gorgeous peridot. The light green gems of the peridot are an almost perfect match to Mason’s eyes.
The shock of what this means causes me to drop the box as if burned by it. Holy shit! Holy shit! Holy shit! I don’t know if I can handle this; it’s too much. I need JT, and I need him now.
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I tap on his contact in my favorites, and with a shaky hand, I hold it up to my ear. My entire body trembles as I wait for him to answer; when his voicemail clicks on, I mumble a curse and hang up.
T, having retrieved the fallen ring box, is bouncing in front of me in excitement. She’s also holding out the folded note I’ve yet to read.
“Here, don’t forget this.”
I stare as if it’s a cobra waiting to strike. It isn’t until Tessa forcibly places the card into my hands that I take it.
The rings are bad enough. I’m not sure I’ll survive the note.
Skittles,
I borrowed a little inspiration from the shirt you showed me you had made for Grayson to add a little flare to this one. Don’t tell him, but I think the footballs work better than basketballs.
Originally I was only going to get you a ring for me, but I remembered how CK gave you crap that first time you came to the AK house and figured I’d do my boy a solid, finally get him added to the fold. I know I’m going to need all the allies I can get to convince you we belong together.
I did do one thing to set mine apart from the rest, though that should come as no surprise. If you do decide to bestow upon me the honor of being added to the representation of those who are most important to you, know I had it sized to fit your left ring finger.
Why, you may ask?
Rings worn on this finger typically have a bigger meaning to them, and I’m hoping this can hold my place until I replace it with something more official down the line.
I love you, baby, so much.
<3 Mase
Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god!
Shit! Now my inner cheerleader has officially turned into
