Page 187 of Rush of Jealousy

“Well, son, there is this thing called Google,” she says sarcastically, making us all burst out into laughter.

I have not laughed this hard or this much in a really long time. It is exactly what I needed, without knowing I needed it. My world is a chaotic mess right now, but these moments here in Hillsboro give me hope that everything will be right again.

“Collect yourselves, family,” Germain says, stifling a laugh. “Get ready, get set, go!”

I grab the bag in a hurry and start tearing the plastic apart to remove the balled up shirt of ice.

“You could have just used the zipper,” Graham slowly says.

“Hurry and breathe on this thing,” I say, exhaling with the shirt ball close to my mouth. “Use your heat and your mouth.”

Graham holds one end of the deformed fabric and tries his darnedest to pull it apart, but it doesn’t budge. “Sit on it,” he says.

“No. You sit on it.”

He hugs it close to his body, and little ice chips fall off like snow to the floor and collect on the towels that are spread out to catch any drippings. I roll up the sleeves on my dress and rest my forearms on the frozen mound. So cold! Graham tugs and tugs until the crackling sound echoes in the room. I glance over at Nic and Penny and see that they almost have theirs unraveled.

“Hurry,” I squeal. “Your brother and sister are going to beat us!” I pull at the fabric with all of my might and stretch it out the full length. The only problem is that we have to separate the layers so it can go over one of our heads. “Oh, I have an idea,” I whisper yell so the other teams can’t hear.

“It better be a good one this time,” he hisses.

“Take off your shirt.”

“Why?” he asks dumbly.

I start tugging at his shirt before he has a chance to say no. Then I take the frozen pancake shirt and press it against his bare chest, making him jump into the air at the sudden shock from the cold.

“Quit being a baby about it,” I snap. “You have a greater surface area of body heat. We need to win this one!”

The shirt melts enough so I can yank the layers apart and pull it over Graham’s head. He pushes ice crystals out of the sleeves as his hands plow through the arm holes.

“We win!” he chants, picking me up and swinging me around.

“Cold!” I howl. “Put me down!”

“Good job, Angie and Graham. We are all tied up now,” Germain says, marking my team with a point.

“The next game is called Bam Bam Bowl,” Donna explains, passing us each a one-legged nylon stocking that has a baseball encased in the footie part. “Put these nylons over your face. No hands are allowed during this game or you will be disqualified. Each team has ten bottles of water set up. Your goal is to knock down all ten bottles by swinging your head and hitting them with the ball. The timer will be set to one minute and the team with the most pins knocked down wins. Ready, set, bowl!”

While the concept seems easy, Graham and I struggle to keep our balls from tangling with each other’s stocking. I work on the right side of the lined up pins and get three down almost instantly. Yes! Graham gets two down, and I focus on the others but end up just hitting myself with the ball.

The buzzer buzzes and Donna announces that she and Germain are the winners. We play a few more rounds of games until the clear winners are decided—Nic and Penny.

“Good job, you guys,” I say in congratulations.

“Thank you,” Penny says happily. “But I can’t wait until I watch you all get pied.”

Nic retreats into the kitchen and comes back with four disposable tin pie shells filled with whipped cream. Penny pies me and Graham, while Nic takes care of his parents.

“Ugh!” I yip as Penny rubs the shell farther into my face for added emphasis. I lick my lips and gather cream on my fingers to eat. “Delicious.” My words come out a mumbled slur, making everyone chuckle. Pictures are snapped of our messy faces and more laughter erupts over the silliness.

Graham pulls me to him and swipes his tongue down the side of my face to eat more whipped cream. “You taste,” he says, making his eyebrows wiggle, “almost as amazing as—”

“Stop!” I hiss, smacking him on the arm.

He looks so bizarre with cream stuck in his eyelashes and some smeared on his shirt. I glance over at his parents and laugh as Germain helps his wife clean up with a washcloth and towel.

“Well, Penny, it’s time to get you back to the facility for the evening rounds and your group session,” Germain says sadly. “We need to be on the tarmac within the hour.” Turning to Graham, he gives his son a smile. “Thanks again for chartering the jet for us. It’s a way easier commute compared to the eight-hour trip I’ve taken in the past.”

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