“’Bout the same,” I whisper back. “I’ve got almost twenty-three hundred, but now I need to get new tires for Baby and my laptop needs repaired. Again.” I sigh. “I feel like I get so close, only for it to slip away again.”
“Have you thought anymore about...” She trails off, but I know what she’s saying. This is the first I’ve seen her since I picked up a bar shift last night, but she’s been hinting that I should do this contest with Riggs.
“Yeah,” I breathe out, “more and more. But it’s just risky.”
I leave it at that. I don’t have to elaborate at all, because she knows.
Riggs has sent me three texts in the week and a half since I saw him at the party. One was later that night, hours after me, Ivy and the guys left, and it was a link to the song he’d mentioned. Just a link. Nothing else. A few days later, he texted to say he’d finished the final book in the YA fantasy series we’d talked about. Then, two nights ago, he sent a short video of his KitchenAid mixer running. “I added cherries” was all he said.
I haven’t responded to any of them.
“How’s Jacob?” I ask Ivy, switching the topic to her younger brother. She practically raised him, and she gushes about him like a proud mama would. Not that I would know from my own experience with moms.
“Oh, he’s doing so good, now.” She grins. “Those little bullies at school haven’t messed with him at all and he’s just signed up to do a science fair. I think Kelley and I are...gonna...”
Her voice takes on a dazed quality and she trails off. When I follow her line of sight, I snort and shake my head. Kelley is shirtless. Of course. I grab my water bottle and nudge her in the arm with it, snapping her out of her drool fest.
“Huh?” She takes the water bottle. “Why’d you give me this?”
I shrug. “Thought maybe you’d need to hydrate. Since you’re such a thirsty bitch.”
Her jaw drops and she gasps, a smile playing at her lips.
“Yeah?” She shoves the water bottle back at me. “Well maybe you should hydrate, because you’re a”—she drops to a whisper—“a salty bitch.”
Jesse and I both fall into hysterics, laughing so hard my side hurts and Jesse has tears in his eyes. Hearing Ivy cuss will never get old.
“Kelley’s a bad influence on you,” I say after catching my breath.
“Oh, that’s too good,” Jesse says between laughs. “Hydrate, you salty bitch. Ahh, I need to get that on a sticker.” He wipes at his eyes, and then barks again. “Oh, little V, you’re so cute.” He reaches out and ruffles her hair and she rolls her eyes.
We watch Kelley’s team dominate, what with him being the grossly athletic stud that he is and all. Ivy continues to drool and assess. Jesse bounces and knits. I pick at my fingernails and jam out to the song that’s currently stuck in my head. It’s exactly the kind of familiar Wednesday night that reminds me that I do have a home, even if it’s not in the traditional sense. Home is where you feel loved and accepted, where you feel safest, where you can be yourself without fear. Sometimes that’s where you grew up with the people who raised you, and sometimes, it’s something entirely different.
Sometimes home is a person, a favorite pair of jeans, a song. A pair of Docs. A motorcycle. A tub of hair dye. Sometimes it’s a familiar backroad in fall with the windows down and the radio up, or a two-dollar taco Wednesday night tradition with a cherry margarita and endless laughter.
Sometimes home is a beautiful, intricate, chaotic, imperfect mosaic of people you’ve collected and places you’ve been, held together by the experiences that have made you, and you carry that with you, adding pieces to it, for the rest of your life.
That’s what these people are for me. Kelley, Ivy, and Jesse are the start of my mosaic. They are my home. It’s a steadying and comforting thought.
Kelley’s game is wrapping up when I notice a large group of guys running on the other side of the field. They’re wearing matching sweatpants, some are shirtless, and some have on blue t-shirts with BU BASEBALL printed on them. And right there in front, leading the pack, is Riggs Stanton.
And of fucking course, he’s one of the shirtless ones.
What the fuck is it with shirtless dudes today?
“Now who’s the thirsty bitch,” Jesse mock-whispers, and I swat at him.
But I don’t say anything to defend myself because I was definitely staring. Color me hypocritical.
When the group comes closer, Riggs makes eye contact with me and gives me a small, almost imperceptible nod of the head. That’s it. And then he just runs on past.
“Hmmm,” Ivy hums.
“How’s that for a brush off,” Jesse quips.
“He was running with his team,” Kelley counters as he walks up and throws his sweaty arm around Ivy. “He was focused.”
“Yeah, but not even a wave? A smile? That’s like polar opposite from every other time we’ve seen him.” Jesse’s got his arms crossed and he’s staring at the baseball team as they loop the intramural fields for another lap. “Where’s the chest pounding? The ground stomping? The flaring nostrils? He didn’t even look like he was considering beating my ass.” Jesse pouts. “It was no fun for me.”
“It was kinda surprising,” Ivy adds.
“He’s like two totally different guys,” I muse. “I don’t get it. It’s like he’s a completely different person when I talk to him versus when he’s around everyone else.”
“Is he making everything complicated?” Jesse asks, and he’s got this big stupid grin on his face.
“Actin’ like somebody else gets you frustrated?” Kelley chimes in.
It hits me a split second before they both shout out in an ear-splitting, horrible attempt at harmony.
“Oh my gooood,” I cut them off. “I’m living in an Avril Lavigne song.”
“Yikes.” Ivy laughs, then hooks her arm in mine. “You know what will fix it? Tacos.”
She tugs me away from the goons behind us who are still attempting to sing that damn song, and we head to the taco bar that’s a few blocks from the intramural fields. I don’t bother thinking about Riggs for the rest of the night. I force him from my head and enjoy my two-dollar tacos and my giant as hell frozen cherry margarita. Then Kelley sneakily covers our bill, which assuages my Crisco can guilt for eating with money I should be squirreling away, and I get home feeling less dark, thanks to my friends.
Before I go to bed, though, I get a text from Riggs.
Fuxboi: You look good in green.
That’s all he says. You look good in green.
I cast a glance at the green flannel I took off and discarded by the door. It was actually Brandon’s, but I kept it after he died. Without overthinking it, I text him back a single thank you, then put my phone on silent and turn off my light.
* * *