Page 73 of Sideline Play

As I start to head for the front door, she calls, “Remi?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For the car I mean. And my family."

Coming back, I cup both sides of her face, fingers threading through her tied back hair, and kiss her. It's firm and fast but says everything I need it to. Still, when I let her go, her lips softly tilting up, I say, "You don't ever have to thank me for having your family here, baby girl. Nor do you have to thank me for making sure you're safe in your car. Nonetheless, I appreciate it."

"I just feel bad. Us Joneses seem to be taking over your space and entire life."

"Our space, Scar.Ours.And as for the takeover, I wouldn't have it any other way if it means I get you."

"Hopefully you still feel that way after the weekend. Because I'll be honest, you'll have to pry this ring from my cold, dead hand if you want to end things."

Kissing her once more and dancing out of her reach as she tries to trap me between her thighs, I smile, "Not somethin' you ever have to worry about. Now for real, I need to go finish your car otherwise I won't have time to slip between those sweet thighs of yours before the entire clan descends upon our sex den without Colt walkin' in on us doing things that will surely see Knox moving from backup to starting and widow you before you even say 'I do.'"

Outside, traitorous sidekick in tow now that she's officially marked safe from Scar offering up her cooking, I head over to the side of the house and our seldom used garage. Punching in the code to open the door, all three lift open, revealing the giant bay I had designed for all the work my ma's old Bronco requires these days. I eventually parted with most of her things after I finally woke up and dealt with her passing, realizing that holding on to every sweater, blanket, and dish she owned wasn't going to help me better hold on to the memory of her. The old SUV, however, I couldn't let go.

Growing up, my ma instilled four calibers of measuring success in me: the quality of the love in your life, not the quantity; the security of the roof over your head, not it's location or cost; the ability to go into a grocery store and buy a week's worth of food without having to count your pennies or put things back; and having your own mode of reliable transportation. It was that fourth one that, when she achieved it, became a core memory that forever defined me.

I was only three, maybe four, when it happened, so really I only remember being told the story. But after saving every sparecent and dollar she could since finding out she was pregnant and would be doing it all alone, she'd been able to afford not only the car itself but the associated and recurring costs after the fact. Even though it was ten years old when she bought it with—if I had to guess—at least 80,000 miles on it, it was her second baby, her pride and joy, a tangible representation that while things were tight more often than they weren't, she was wholly independent and no longer had to rely on anyone but herself for anything. She loved that damn thing and what it represented so much that it remained the only car she ever owned. So even with the need to let go and move on, I kept it. And until it had refused to give me so much as a sputter one day after practice, I had been driving it as my primary vehicle since she died.

Patting the open hood of the car while directing Winnie with a whistle and a point to the lifted bed I added in here for her several weeks back, I comment, "Don't worry, Lucky. I'm gonna finish your engine and clutch. My girl's car needed servicing and winter proofing, otherwise you'd be getting all my attention."

Dropping my phone in the dock and hitting shuffle—“Fiddle in the Band” filling my speakers—I drag my work cart over to where Scar's Rover is lifted up, stack her new tires that arrived yesterday afternoon, and roll my neck until it pops. Then stuffing a rag into the pocket of my worn, stained jeans, I get on the slide board and wheel under to finish up what I started yesterday.

THIRTY-TWO

REMINGTON

It’s not evenan hour later when I hear Scar excitedly scream, “They're here!” over my terrible rendition of “Body Like a Back Road.” The infectious joy she has over seeing her dad and brother is more than worth whatever hell she thinks having the wholeHome Teamas she calls them in our house will be for me.

I slide out from under her car as she pops her head into the garage, now dressed for receiving company, urging me, “Come on, Remi; they’re coming up the drive. I want you with me when I show ‘em.”

“Show us what?” Roman all but accuses through her phone’s speaker. “Squeaks?”

“You’ll see,” she taunts, hanging up and running over to grab my hand.

Wiping the grease off right quick, I wrap an arm around her, tucking her in close to my side, and kiss her head as we head out, Winnie leading the way.

“You know he thinks you’re pregnant now, right?”

“I know,” she smiles mischievously. “Ro is such a Chicken Little. This way, he’ll be so relieved I’m not, he won’t want to lash out at you when we tell ‘em we got engaged.” Holding her handout in front of us, the dawn pink sapphire glinting in the sun, she hums, “I really do love it, Remi. It’s exactly what I would’ve wanted. Thank you.”

“I’m glad,” I respond, lacing our fingers together at her shoulder, a small smear of grease staining the back of her hand. “You took forever to actually look at it. I was beginning to think you hated it.”

“It could be a cracked Ring Pop and I would love it and think it’s perfect. Though I’d probably snack on it if I’m being 100% honest.”

“God, I love you,” I chuckle. Waving as I see the custom colored truck the Joneses are known for crest the hill we sit on, I say, “You look beautiful,” staying mindful to not accidentally touch her muted pink cardigan or the lacey strap of her cream colored crop top.

“Thank you,” she beams, bobbing a little curtsey, her knee peeking out through the hole in her well loved jeans. “They left, like, really early and didn’t tell me until they called not even ten minutes ago, so I didn’t have a lot of time to do much else but change, let my hair down, and throw on the bare minimum of makeup. I do still have the panties on though,” she smiles devilishly.

Any response I have is cut off as Roman gets out of the truck looking like he was sent by Hades himself to retrieve my soul, shouting, “Tate, you mother—umpf,” only for Scar to almost tackle him as she runs and jumps on him, smacking a loud kiss on his cheek.

“I missed you, I missed you, I missed you!” she cries, stubbornly holding on to him as he tries to shake her loose.

“Squeaks, let me go.”

“No.”

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