Page 81 of Crossing the Top Line

The boys laugh along to my childhood trauma, and I smile lazily, thoughts derailing as I stare at the candles again.

“She didn’t live on our street, but there was this busy body HOA rep who made life hell. I remember when she tried to use my next-door neighbor’s hose to wash off mine and my brother’s chalk drawings from the sidewalk.” Oliver sighs, taking another drink from his plastic cup.

“You have brothers?” Spencer asks, turning to face him better.

Oliver nods. “Two of ’em. I’m the youngest. Martin and Jean,” he replies, a touch of his French Canadien accent coming through on the names.

I turn to look at Spencer, jolting a little as I realize he’s staring at me, his mouth a serious frown. But I blink, and the casual smile is back. It’s like the one he used in our interview, the front.

“Oh, no. I’m an only child. Almost had a twin, though,” he says, chuckling at a joke the rest of us aren’t privy to.

“Did you eat them in the womb?” Elijah asks, lowering his voice in sarcastic horror.

Spencer throws his head back and laughs, and my stomach does a funny little dance at the sound. Maybe I need to eat? It’s been a while.

“Nothing like that. My mom used a donor to get pregnant and raised me on her own,” Spencer says once he stops laughing.

We’re all silent for a few heartbeats, not sure what to do with that information. Spencer doesn’t let us dwell, though, as he gets to his feet and heads into the kitchen. Before I can think better of it, I let out the most pathetic whimper I can muster and hold out my cup for him. He snaps back around at the noise, his eyes hard to read so far from the only source of light, but the heat on my face is undeniable. His spine uncurls, and he smiles again, sighing fondly as he comes back and takes my cup with him into the kitchen. But when I turn back around, Oliver is right in front of me, the tip of his nose not six inches from mine. I manage to contain my yelp of surprise, but just barely.

“If you make that sound again, I refuse to be held responsible for what comes after,” he growls, low enough that I almost don’t hear him over the sound of the storm outside.

My stomach does a full-on gymnastics routine, my already flushed skin burning with an entirely different sort of heat. For a split second, I consider defying him, if only to see what he would do. Spencer is only a few steps away. He wouldn’t do anything in front of him, right?

But he did drag me into a supply closet and kiss the shit out of me in an arena full of people, so who knows.

Oliver’s amber eyes flick over my shoulder and he sits back, settling in place like he didn’t just ruin my panties in twenty-five syllables or less. I turn and see Spencer heading back toward the sectional, two drinks, three bags of chips, and charcuterie board balanced carefully in his arms.

“You read my fucking mind,” Eli moans, and maybe it’s the residual effects of Oliver’s threat, but I can’t help but remember how he made that sound when we…

Spencer’s nostrils flare as he leans in to hand me my drink, and I swallow hard. His eyes darken for a fraction of a heartbeat, so fast that I almost miss it. More memories, another dark and humid room, soft pillows and blankets under my back. That look above me, a hand around my throat, preventing me from looking away.

I take a long drink of whatever Spencer gave me, trying to quench my suddenly dry mouth. I can’t taste any alcohol, but he could have handed me an entire cup of liquid Rohypnol and I would have chugged it, just so I didn’t have to look at those ocean eyes anymore.

Some of the candles are moved or extinguished to make room for the food, and we’re quiet for a while as we snack. The hazy, lightheaded drunk feeling in my head recedes, drowsiness replacing it. I don’t know how, but somehow, I end up on the floor, head reclined on the couch cushion, my eyes closed as I listen to the pounding rain and howling wind battering the house. The boys are talking about hockey, of course, not that I’m really hearing anything. I could fall asleep here if I really tried. My back will hate me later, but getting up sounds like actual torture.

Fingers in my hair jerk me away from my internal debate, and I look up to find silver-blue eyes hovering over my face, a gap-toothed smile so sweet that I can’t help but return it.

“Are we boring you, Tor?” he asks playfully.

I shrug with one shoulder. “I’ve certainly heard less engaging conversations, but I can’t remember when,” I throw back, smirking to myself.

Oliver chuckles, but Eli grins wider. He shifts back, crossing one leg under his hips so he can sit behind me without putting my face directly in his crotch. My face splits into a satisfied grin as he continues to play with the ends of my hair, gently parting a few tangles so he can run his fingers down the length smoothly.

“Why’d you dye it?” Spencer asks into the silence.

I stiffen on instinct, but force myself to relax. This is an innocent enough question. And we’re friends now, right? Friends ask friends about changes like this.

“The sun down here was already doing a partial job, and Rachel convinced me to try the lemon juice trick to get temporary blonde highlights. I liked them so much that I made them permanent,” I answer, not looking at him.

He doesn’t need to know that the “lemon juice trick” was actually an at-home bleach kit I’d purchased on a whim in Michigan and somehow made it through my move. My new doctors down here were messing with my medication cocktail and the side effects hit me like a Mack truck, sending me on a tailspin. Rachel didn’t so much convince me to do it as convince me to go to a salon to fix what I did in the middle of the night after being awake for thirty-nine hours.

“It looks good, though. Not that you didn’t look good with dark hair. But this color suits you,” Spencer says, his stumbling words pulling me back from my jaunt down Memory Lane.

I give him a small smile, genuinely touched. He’s not looking at me, though. And it could just be a trick of the firelight, but I could swear the tops of his chisel-sharp cheekbones have a bit more color. I turn away and crane my neck backward, looking at an upside-down Eli.

“I forgot to ask you earlier when we were talking about siblings. How many do you have?”

I relax as he smiles, looking back at the ceiling. “Biological or adopted?” he answers.

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