Page 7 of XO

I throw the dishtowel on the counter and grunt in frustration. Staring at the ceiling, I realize I’m throwing a tantrum, but I can’t help it. It’s whathedoes to me. But it feels so much more than that. This last week hasn’t just been Jacob copping the brunt of it, it’s anyone who crosses my path. I rub my lower back because I suddenly feel achy. “I just don’t understand why the Lynch’s have to come overallthe time. And why do they always bring Jacob?”

Pulling more wine from the fridge, my mother throws me a confused side-eye. “Because your father and I are actually rather fond of the Lynchs, and in case you’ve forgotten, Jacob’s their son. He’s part of the package just like you are.”

“I get that much. It’s just—”

“Just what? You and Jacob are old enough now to get over yourselves and be friends. Whatever animosity you two have for each other should have evaporated by now.” I stare at my mother and wonder if in twenty years I will look as beautiful as her. We both have the thick, dark hair and milky skin, and green almond-shaped eyes.

“It’s not me who needs to get over myself, Mom. You have no idea how arrogant he is.” I tear angrily at a piece of garlic bread and pop it into my mouth. I take a moment to savor the flavor before continuing, hushing my voice so our guests outside can’t hear, “He takes great joy in watching me suffer.”

“Suffer from what?”

“Him simply gracing the same corridor I’m in. Him and his snide remarks. Him and his cruel pranks on me. Him being so damn popular and pointing out that I will never be in the same category.”

She stops mixing the potato salad and eyeballs me. I can’t tell if she’s taking the situation seriously. “Does he say that?”

I feel nervous under her scrutiny. “No, not in those words—”

“Rosie, what’s gotten into you lately? Where’s my fun-loving girl I know I raised?”

“I don’t know,” I grumble belligerently, having gone from wanting to ravage the garlic bread to being completely unenthused with the idea of eating.Damn, what the hell is wrong with me?I’m only ever a jerk around Jacob because he brings that side out in me, but my mother is used to seeing a very different side of her daughter. It doesn’t help that the Lynch’s close proximity is enough to irk me.

“Well, I want that girl back. So, when she decides to resurface, tell me if you still feel the way you do. But until then…” her gaze moves to the group outside, Mrs. Lynch laughing hysterically at my father’s jokes, “… learn to get along with him. I’m sure he doesn’t have a problem with you like you do him.”

I snatch the garlic bread basket and make for the door. “That’s because I’m not an asshole to him.” That’s a lie. But I’m only an asshole in retaliation.

“Rosie!” Mom reprimands but I already regret it as soon as the cuss leaves my mouth. Particularly because Jacob’s obnoxious smirk tells me he’s heard every word. He leans back on the deck chair, an ankle hooked over a knee, fingers loosely interlaced. Jacob’s gaze moves over my body, taking in the thigh split of my long skirt as I walk, to the skin revealed by my lace off-the-shoulder crop top. His linger tells me he appreciates what he sees, and he takes no action to hide it. The asshole doesn’t look so bad himself.

Doing the dishes earlier, I’d watched from the kitchen window as the boy I once despised had somehow morphed into a man with sculptured muscles and ridiculously good looks. And he had no qualms in showing off his body while he lounged around the pool.

When our eyes meet, I screw up my face at him and place the breadbasket down next to the steak and sausages my father’s just finished barbecuing.

“Rosie,” Mr. Lynch exclaims with the same arrogance as his son. “Jacob was telling me about the points decider at the beginning of the week.”

Well, this will be interesting.

“Did he also tell you how close he came to losing?”

Beside me, Jacob chuckles, his father holding my attention, something dark working through his brain. “Well… it wouldn’t be so great if the team with the football captain lost, now would it? Wouldn’t be worth him showing his face around town.”

What a stupid, ignorant thing to say.

I glance at Jacob who’s grown immediately tense and wonder if this is the sort of ridiculous pressure his father always has him under when it comes to football.

“So, he’s expected to always win? Simply because he’s football captain?” Mr. Lynch doesn’t expect a reply, and it takes him a moment to gather his thoughts. He’s the type of man who talks over anyone in his presence. His family included. But I’m on a roll tonight, experiencing all-new emotions—very raw, unsettling emotions and to hell if I know why.

“Don’t take it personally, sweetie.” He smirks, his rough, calloused fingers pinching my waist. I take a not so subtle step away, both Jacob and me bristling at his father’s touch. “You’re great at those painting things you do, but you’re no athlete.”

“Yes, because heaven forbid an artist win at anything remotely physical.”

He leans forward, readying for combat. “All I’m saying is a football captain of a victorious team has a reputation to uphold, and that doesn’t involve losing to you and your group of…” he pauses while he searches for the words, “… whatever it is you call yourselves. You’re just lucky you had your Swedish Sven—”

“Hans. His name is Hans, and he’s from Germany.”

“Hans then… you’re lucky you had him on your side. Not so lucky for my son had he of lost.”

While Mr. Lynch belly laughs at his pathetic comment, I glance again at Jacob. I’m unfortunately right. His tense jaw reveals probably years’ worth of having to live up to his father’s unrealistic expectations and cruel taunts.

“It was just a game, Dad,” Jacob says, and I hear the unease in his tone. “It was nothing serious.”

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