Page 120 of On a Fault Line

Both men stare at me, as if I’m about to give a speech. But what’s the point? We are just potentially drawing more attention to this area of the patio than necessary.

Ignoring them both, I walk myself into the pool, while licking smeared icing from my lips and trying to avoid eye contact with anyone who wants to piss all over my Labor Day parade.

Just when I’m feeling comfortable on a pool float, I see Momma arrive with a huge cardboard scoreboard sign.

This is her favorite thing about family gatherings, so I can’t help but smile over her enthusiasm.

“Who’s ready for the most epic game extravaganza yet?” she half screams. Then she hits a switch on the back of the board, and red, white, and blue lights turn on around the border.

“Wow, Momma. You upgraded again.”

“I’m glad you noticed, Penny,” she says with a beaming smile. “Your father is still reminding me about the horrible trophies I purchased last year and the hate-crime medallions that arrived for your birthday. So this time, I opted for something better—classic.”

“Oh, what’s that?” Angie asks.

“Ribbons. Like no one can mess up ribbons—right?”

“You did check to make sure everything is good with the shipment, right?” Dad asks her.

“No. I live for a good surprise reveal. It’s all the rage now with the young’uns on social media. So make sure you record me with a stellar filter. Make me look super fake.”

Oh boy…

Grabbing the box from the chair, Momma carries it over to the table underneath the canopy.

We watch as she struggles to get through the packing tape.

“Here,” Collins says, coming to her rescue. “I got it.”

Pulling out his knife, he has the box open in just seconds.

“Always the Boy Scout,” I mumble under my breath.

Sidling up beside me, he whispers, “I’m ready for everything—except for you.”

“You ready to lose?”

“You ready to watch me soar to victory?” Collins challenges.

“I come from a dynasty of game fanatics and a strong female role model. So strap in for the ride, because as you know, I play to win.” I glance around the area. “Where’s Ivan?”

“Who?”

I smack his arm. “The kid.”

“Oh.” He manages to look sad, but I know it’s fake. “Over there, playing cornhole by himself.”

“I’ll go get him.”

“No, don’t. He’s quite enjoyable when he’s being passive-aggressive.”

I roll my eyes. “I can’t be rude, Collins.”

“Fine.”

I run off toward Ivan. I hate that I feel stuck between my broody secret boyfriend and a boy who is a friend. It feels scandalous. The man I shouldn’t want is the one who I can’t stop obsessing over.

Ivan would be the easy choice.

---