Page 1 of Bite Your Tongue

“Why are you wearing those dorky glasses when you don’t even need them to see?” my brother Smith says before taking a bite of his pizza. “You’re so weird. And extra.”

“Smith, that’s enough,” my mom scolds him before smiling at me. “I love your glasses, baby. I think you look adorable.”

“No, she doesn’t. And also, if she keeps making those faces, people are going to think she’s having a medical episode.” My brother smirks, narrowing his eyes at me. “Why can’t you just be normal? Why do you always need attention?”

My oldest brother, Silas, chimes in, “You’re just pissed because she’s funnier than you are.” He thinks for a second. “Matter of fact, now that I think about it, you aren’t funny at all, Smithy.”

“I am too, asshole,” Smith mutters, and my mother smacks the top of his hand.

“Since when does my thirteen-year-old have an absolute potty mouth?” she hisses. “It’s your new group of friends. Nothing but trouble.” She turns back to me. “You are funny, love. You’re so funny. Ignore your brother, okay?”

“But she doesn’t even need glasses,” Smith says. “Who would want to wear glasses if they didn’t need them to … oh, I don’t know … see?”

“Your sister—that’s who,” my mom snaps. “When you went through the stage of thinking you were Superman, we let you go around and pretend to save the world.”

Smith is suddenly silent, his eyes widening. “That was different,” he utters. “I was, like … three.”

“You were older than three.” My mom chuckles. “Either way, worry about yourself, is my point.” She gives my brother a mischievous stare. “If you keep bothering your sister, I have some things I can share with the class about you, Mr. Obsessed with Gem—”

“Okay, okay, fine,” Smith grumbles quickly, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’ll shut up.”

“Thought so,” my mom coos, taking a sip of her club soda and smiling.

My mom is an angel, but she knows what she needs to say when she wants to prove a point—like right now.

I adjust the fake glasses on my face, keeping them on and refraining from making any weird faces at my brother. I don’t know why I always need to “put on a show.” I guess it just makes me more comfortable than being serious all the time. My whole life, everyone jokes that I’m too much, which is strange because I always feel like I’m missing something.

Either way, I am who I am, and if some people find me annoying … well, to hell with them. One day, a person is going to come along and like the way I am.

If not, I suppose I’ll just be a crazy cat lady instead.

Eleven Years Later

Ipull in next to the familiar dark gray truck that I know belongs to Tripp Talmage. When he texted me last night and asked me to meet at this café, I was a little weirded out. The surly goalie might be my brother’s good friend and teammate, but I have never had a deep conversation with the guy, and we certainly don’t hang out outside of team events. He said it was important though … so here I am.

His truck door opens, and he steps down, closing the door behind him. Before I can open my own door, he does it for me, greeting me with his small, shy grin.

“Saylor,” his deep Southern voice drawls, “thanks for coming out.”

“Of course,” I say pleasantly, climbing out of my car. “Though I’m not sure what earned me a coffee date with the big, broody Tripp T,” I say just as he closes my car door behind me.

Tripp is a good-looking man—there’s no doubting that. Whether he’s fully decked out in his goalie gear, standing in front of his battle station confidently, or when he’s got on a ball cap and his hoodie, like today, he’s hot. He also happens to be one of the quieter ones on the team and probably the very last one of my brother’s friends I’d ever expect to ask me on a date. Well, maybe besides Ryder Cambridge, who is Smith’s ride or die. He’s absolute eye candy, but there’s no way he’d ever entertain taking me out since he’s so damn loyal to my brother.

We make our way to the door, and Tripp pulls it open, holding it as I walk inside.

“Let’s order first?” I suggest, and he gives me a curt, subtle nod before walking up to the counter.

I look over the menu, my eyes wide because I’ve never been here and I’m overwhelmed as hell. There are more options than I know what to do with.

“Can you just do, like … an iced mocha?” I frown. “A medium one?”

“Sure, no problem,” the redheaded girl answers sweetly. Her eyes move to Tripp, and she drinks him in like he’s an extra-large latte waiting to be slurped. “And for you?” she mumbles nervously, clearing her throat.

“Uh … same as her, I guess?” he mutters, handing her his card.

With a shaky hand, she takes the card from him and finishes the transaction. As she spins the screen toward him for the tip amount, my eyes bug out when he leaves her one hundred dollars.

Shit, for one hundred bucks … I could make him a coffee too.

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