I rolled my eyes. “You’re gonna look snazzy in a suit, but your ass is gonna get fat sitting behind a desk all day.”
I expected him to retaliate with a smack upside the head, but he released a resigned sigh and kicked at the sand like a kid who’d been told he couldn’t have a cookie until he ate a plateful of peas.
“Yeah, adulting is awesome,” he snarked.
I chuckled lightly before heading to the other side of the court. Nope, adulting sucked. Nothing was easy or fair. In my experience, you rarely got what you asked for and if you did, there was a huge fucking catch. Or a strange twist you never in a million years could have predicted. Like Anna and Braden. Maybe it was none of my business, and maybe I had no right to voice my opinion, but if anyone was curious, I really wasn’t okay with it. I wanted Braden. It sucked that I didn’t stand a chance.
4
Braden
“Why should their liberty be more important than ours?”
“That’s not the line, Soph.”
“Ugh. What is it?” She flipped her hair over her shoulder, then waved at Phoenix when he hopped onto the stage.
I’d only been at the theater for a couple of hours, but I was ready to go home. That wasn’t like me. I usually loved hanging out with the actors and soaking in the atmosphere. It was a little chaotic—people talking over each other one minute and whispering quietly with their feet propped on chairs the next. But the energy was palpable and exciting. Most of the time.
Today, not so much.
I glanced down at the script and recited the correct line just as my phone vibrated. I resisted the urge to pull it out of my pocket until Sophie bent her head to do another read-through.
A message from Elliot flashed on the screen. I unlocked my phone and a moment later, a meme of a guy drinking a gallon of mayonnaise straight from a jug popped up with the caption, “Real men love mayo.” I snorted. Seriously. Elliot was such a dork. Apparently, trading memes had become our new thing. And these silly exchanges were the highlight of my day.
It had been two weeks since “the kiss,” and I was relieved to report that we’d managed to move on without any weirdness. In fact, I thought we’d become better friends because of it. Elliot wasn’t the type to let awkwardness take over. He liked to talk. Not necessarily about hard topics, like feelings…or “the kiss,” but he didn’t let quiet seep in and take on meaning he couldn’t control. So we tended to have interesting conversations about the weirdest things.
Breakfast might begin with anything from an analysis of a dream he had starring Harry Styles or a barrage of “did you know” questions. “Did you know a snail can have up to twenty-five thousand teeth?” or “Did you know a flock of crows is called a murder?” No. And it shouldn’t have been particularly interesting, but Elliot had a talent for turning strange topics into conversations that made me laugh so hard I literally had tears in my eyes. He used humor to get us through a potentially uncomfortable phase, so we could settle into just being roommates and friends. It worked.
To a degree, anyway. I was still ridiculously attracted to him. All he had to do was walk into a room, and my pulse went into overdrive. Granted, sometimes it was because his coffee sloshed over the side of his cup and dripped onto the floor, but I was usually too distracted by his abs or the way his board shorts molded to his ass so damn perfectly to gripe about anything. And yes, I was proud of myself for maturely pushing through major infatuation and lust.
The moment he stepped onto the sand, he was surrounded by friends or admirers who basked in his easy smile and sweet disposition. He was like the beach version of a rock star. No wonder Gus asked him to take Ty’s place. His skill level might not be on par with more seasoned pros, but he was magnetic and charismatic…and he wasn’t afraid to work hard. After he goofed around a little, of course.
For instance, he’d spent a good ten minutes bragging about the most amazing BLT he’d ever made while we were passing the volleyball at the beach this morning. Something about the importance of the ratio of bacon to lettuce and tomato, the order they were stacked, and the proper amount of mayo. You know, important stuff.
“Mayonnaise is disgusting,” I’d pronounced, popping the ball to him.
Elliot jumped into the air and spiked it hard, slamming it into the sand near my feet. “You can’t make a BLT without mayo, weirdo.”
“Sure, you can.” I’d pointed at the ball, then inclined my head toward the boardwalk when I spotted his partner and coach in the distance. “Gus and Dave are here. Get the ball.”