Mikey grinned ear-to-ear, planting his hands on either side of Pete’s face. “How come you didn’t wait for me to do chores with you and Drewy?”
“You guys looked like two comfy peas-in-a-pod, so I didn’t have the heart to wake you,” Pete answered, poking Mikey in the stomach before flipping him upside down so that he landed on his feet.
“Whoa!” Mikey giggled, staggering sideways before running to catch up with his brother. The sound of his squeal interrupted Pete and I’s stare fest. “Whoa!—you gotta short cut, almost wike mine!”
My starter-smile morphed into a yawn. I really felt like I should be better rested. “Thanks again for helpin’ out,” I said, hoisting myself up. “That’s awfully nice of you.”
Pete nodded thoughtfully, staring at me until my face warmed. “You look pretty warn out.”
“Words every girl dreams of hearin’.” I resisted the urge to smooth down my hair.
His lips didn’t even twitch. “You have to take better care of yourself, Kate. Slow down a bit. Don’t work all the time—try to enjoy yourself every once-in-a-while.” He recommended this as if the ideas had never crossed my mind.
“I’ll get right on bookin’ a spa retreat to Cabo right after my mani-pedi on Monday,” I said, pushing the covers off a little too airily.
I was trying not to be combative but felt piqued. Does he think I enjoy living like this? Like it’s a lifestyle choice? I tried not to be mad. He probably couldn’t fathom how hard things were in my world, having had the good fortune of being born with a silver spoon in his mouth. I looked over at his polished perfection—make that golden spoon. I yanked the covers back up, hastily making my bed.
“You see what I mean?” He held out his palm. “Just leave it for goodness sake.”
I wheeled around. “Some of us don’t happen to have a merry maid to magically come along and pick up after us when we leave!”
Pete sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not trying to criticize. All I’m saying is—try to cut corners a little. Take some time out to have fun. You have too much responsibility on your young shoulders.”
“Says the seventeen-year-old boy,” I shot back, then punched my pink, fuzzy pillow and tossed it on top of my bed.
He ignored the hit. “Why didn’t you go to homecoming?”
“Because the guy I wanted to ask me happened to be out of town,” I mumbled, finding the need to straighten the picture frames on my nightstand.
Pete came up behind me and pulled my hair to one side. He kissed my shoulder, grazing the tender bruise with his lips. “I would’ve loved to have taken you to homecoming,” he breathed down my neck.
I shivered, in an entirely pleasant way, then huffed out a chuckle. I had a hard time picturing him at our cheesy homecoming dance. It seemed so juvenile and . . . lowbrow for him, and I told him so.
“I can picture it,” he disagreed. “And your spectacular body in a little black dress. Would’ve been a kick—I’ve never been to a homecoming. It’s actually been a little fun for me taking a hiatus from The Academy to experience regular high school. Feels . . . normal.”
Ah. My word.
“Well, I hate to break it to you, but there’s nothing normal about you.” My eyebrows remained suspended at this revelation. I’m not sure why because it really did seem like he was enjoying himself, almost like he was on a vacation. I recalled us kicking back that afternoon, trading licks on an ice cream cone. How happy and content I felt him to be. But I still wondered: How much of it was real, and how much was part of the mission to win me over? I really hoped he wasn’t faking—that would kill me; it really would.
I forced an upbeat tone. “And I think that ship has already sailed.”
“There’s always prom,” he said.
Spinning around in his arms, I tilted my face up. “Yeah right—prom. I won’t hold my breath for that.” I tried for jovial but ended up with wistful.
He wrapped his arms around my waist. I wound my arms around his neck, and we kind of just swayed together until he stopped to grimace. “Just promise me you won’t go with Ron Tillman.”
I forced a laugh. “I can virtually guarantee that.”
It seemed like we were starting to say our goodbyes already, and I wasn’t ready for that, so I led him by hand into the dining room, where the smell of French fries was calling my name. After a thoughtful dinner of veggie burger for me, and regular burgers for them, we played a few hilarious rounds of Bullshit, or “I Doubt It”, as it was called in my house. Pete had to intervene on that one, so we settled for “Bullcrap” to the delight of the boys, who thought they were getting away with something.
Mikey and I won of course, because I always knew when Pete was lying. And called him out on it every time. He seemed to grow exponentially quieter the more rounds he lost, until every spec of good humor was gone from his face. Finally, he threw down his thick stack of cards and groaned that it would take till midnight to get rid of them all. But his humorous tone seemed forced.
Could it be he was a sore loser? Life’s winners were often the worst losers. Maybe I should’ve cut him a break, like I did everyone else? But I was really enjoying sticking it to him for playing for the wrong team.
We sent the boys off to get ready for bed and began clearing the dining room table. As he slid past me with a plate of stumpy fries bloodied from their ketchup-drowning, I poked him in the ribs. “Don’t tell me you’re feelin’ sore cause I finally found somethin’ I can beat you at?” I teased.
Pete looked directly at me for the first time since I last blasted him with Bullcrap! Half a lip lifted. “You should quit waitressing to become a card shark.”
I laughed a little too heartily. “Don’t think I haven’t thought of that. But alas, gamblin’s a sin, so Daddy’d never go for it.”
He laughed, a little less heartily. “Probably for the best. Why don’t you go ahead and get ready for bed while I finish cleaning up?”
I dropped my dishrag into his palm. “Don’t have to ask me twice.”
A quick goodnight to the boys, and I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth. It was about at the end of this endeavor when my brain started to feel two sizes too big for my skull, so I decided to pop a couple of more Tylenols. But before I could get ‘em down the hatch, Pete came up behind me and replaced them with two Vicodin. I looked askance at the intervention.
“Acetaminophen’s workin’ just fine. Plus, those happy pills tend to really knock me out.” I politely declined the offer—so wanted to stay awake right now. Gulping down my pain reliever with some coffee had even crossed my mind.
“You could use the extra sleep,” he said gently. “And I kind of like seeing you when you’re a little . . . less inhibited.” This little revelation preceded those lips, I’d been admiring all night, nuzzling my neck; I practically swooned right there on the bathroom floor. But before I could melt into a puddle of pink ooze, he popped a pill between my lips. “Bottoms up,” he commanded with the kind of smile that dropped panties.
I wasn’t sure, so Pete gave me a reassuring squeeze, running his hands over my shoulders and down my arms. Then, biting his lips, he gave me the eyes and an accompanying head toss. Gah!—so sexy. I was able to witness this contrived move, and the corresponding bloom manifesting upon my cheeks, from our reflection. But before I could reflect further, he pushed the pill into my mouth. I automatically swallowed it down with the water he tipped to my lips, and a sweet kiss was swiftly bestowed upon my cheek.