Page 32 of Home Game

She glances at me and her hard eyes soften a touch.

“It’s what Dad would have done. I actually thought about it when I made the decision.”

Her lip quivers.

I reach over and hold my hand out for her to take. She does, squeezing my palm while I squeeze hers back. She turns the final corner to head to our house but slows when we spot the Jeep idling at the edge of our driveway.

“Someone coming back for more?”

I shake my head.

“No, not exactly.” Peyton may have words for me, but she’s not going to knock me out. At least, I don’t think so.

When she hops out of the driver’s side and Whiskey climbs out of the passenger side, my mom sinks back in her seat with relief. She idles at the end of our driveway, and I get out to talk with my visitors.

“I’ll be right in,” I say. I feel guilty I pulled her out of bed in a panic. She has work in the morning and was already out pretty late for my game.

My mom pulls up the driveway and into the garage, leaving it open for me after she heads inside.

“How bad is it, dude?” Whiskey steps up as I tilt my head to allow the streetlight to glow on my wound.

“Oooof.” He winces.

“Eh, looks worse than it feels,” I lie. It definitely feels worse than a single stitch.

“You tell her how to get here?” I nod toward the Jeep where Peyton is still hovering outside the door.

“Yeah. I hope that’s okay. She was pretty insistent. And to be honest, she’s always scared the shit out of me,” he says, whispering that last part.

I chuckle.

“I get that,” I agree.

I glance back to Peyton and nod. She lifts a hand, but not really in a wave. More like a silent agreement that we’re both here, that she came to my house, and there’s a weird fucking vibe going on because of tonight.

“You wanna stay the night? We have a guest room. Tony’s picking me up for film in the morning, so you can just come with.”

Whiskey nods and runs his hand through his sweaty hair. It’s too hot to party in the desert.What is up with this place? Why don’t they simply pick someone’s house?

“I’m gonna shower if that’s cool with you?” he asks as he begins to trek up my driveway.

“Yeah. There are clean towels by the linen closet. We haven’t gotten around to unpacking the boxes yet, so look for the one with a T on it.

While Whiskey heads into my garage, I shuffle toward Peyton, my chest tight because I’m not sure what to expect. She rests her back against the side of the Jeep and tucks her hands in her hoodie as I step in front of her.

“How’s the lip?” Her brow arches.

“You tell me,” I say, turning my head slightly as if I’m showing off a new piercing or a close shave. She stands up and leans in close, her hand reaching up and brushing my chin. Her eyelashes flit as she studies my wound, and a second later she’s staring into my eyes.

“It’s pretty gross.”

I laugh at her unkind bluntness, but I don’t back away. Neither does she. And her hand, its touch only becomes more certain. Steadier.

“I brought you a dime,” she says, her other hand slowly bunching up the center of my T-shirt. The toes of our shoes are touching now.

“A dime? Do they still make those?” I say.

“Hmm, it’s an artifact, for sure. But I wanted to buy that bottle off you. You know, for my collection. Contribute toward your tuition fund.”

---