Page 3 of Playing Rucking Hard

On the dance floor, his hands brush my hips. Not in a sleazy way, but with just enough pressure to make me think of possibilities … which lead to other, more depressive thoughts. Damn it, emotion burns the back of my eyes, and I refuse to cry. Not here and not now. Yes, I’m overdue for an ugly crying session until I collapse from dehydration, but there will be time for that once I’ve got everything sorted.

There will be enough time for tears next week, next month, and next year. Tonight, I’m with Mr. Perfect Next Ex, and I deserve to enjoy each moment.

I want him to kiss me. I want him to touch me. I want him to do things to me that thegood girlin me should never want.

“I know it’s early, but do you wanna?” he nods towards the exit. We’ve danced and talked for hours. Since my spilt drink, I’ve stuck to soda water. If this is my one night of fun, I want to remember it—but I still feel buzzed just by being with him. He seems to know everyone, from the number of people who tried to drag him into group conversations or share our table. But time and time again, he’s made it clear that he only had eyes and time for me.

“What are you suggesting?” I tease back, wanting to hear the words.

“Well, how can I be your Next Ex if we don’t seal the deal?” He waits, seemingly confident, while the angel and devil on my shoulders negotiate. This is my life. I don’t want to lose what could be my only chance in months to ignore my responsibilities.

“Are you as good as you look?” I ask because I want him to make promises that his ego and body will be forced to deliver on.

The cab driver patiently waits as Mr. Perfect answers me in the best way possible. One hand clasping my cheek and chin, while his arm pulls me into his chest, he leans down and eye-fucks me for long seconds.

I’m powerless. I’m at his mercy. My breathing is shallow and rapid while he takes his time before pressing his lips to mine. His tongue plays at my seam, teasing me open until his hips grind against mine, and I feel the delicious bulge of his erection. He deepens the kiss and it’s as if he’s sucking all doubts from my soul.

“Well, what do you think, Miss Next Ex?” he asks as we break apart at the driver’s request to “hurry up and get a fucking room.”

“I don’t know,” I say with a tease. “But you have potential.”

When we end up at his penthouse overlooking the water, I don’t question whether he owns or rents because no one our age owns a waterfront penthouse like this. The morning views would be glorious—not that I can stay long enough to find out.

Unsurprisingly, he could teach the boys back home how a man should make love. From his kiss to the way he ensures my needs are met first, second, and third, Mr. Perfect gives me a night to remember. He ticks all the boxes in what I want in a lover. Which only makes me want to cry more.

But I save my tears until he’s asleep and he thinks I’m staying the night. Instead, I quietly roll out of bed, let myself out of hisbeautiful home, and unleash the tears in front of an Uber driver who’s probably seen it all before.

“Get it out, Emma,” I chide myself. “Because tomorrow you need to shine. Everything depends on big smiles and clear eyes. Everything.”

Chapter 1

My Sister’s Keeper

Emma

I’m in the shower, self-indulgently thinking about Mr. Perfect Next Ex when an earth-shattering scream reminds me that reality is always ready to kick my ass.No, not today. Please, not today.I’ve only had a couple of hours of sleep and need a shower to feel normal before having to face the day. Is that too much to ask?

I barely turn off the tap and grab a towel before rushing into Sage’s room, trying not to slip on the tiles.

My younger sister hides under the covers, screaming and writhing. I’d panic if I hadn’t lived this most mornings for the past four months. It hasn’t gotten better—or worse with a new city.

“Sage, it’s me. It’s Emma.” I lower my voice and slow my breathing as if calm can somehow seep through the air between us. “You’re safe. I’m here.”

“Sage, it’s me. It’s Emma. I’m here and you’re safe.” I wait until she stops struggling to uncover her, hating how her eyes remain tightly closed. No matter what I do or say, she’s locked inside her head, relieving her pain.

Four months of yoga isn’t enough to find my center, but I give it a go. Mindfulness and serenity—isn’t that what the brochures promised? “Sage, please, breathe with me.”

I say the mantra that seemed to work for the last week or so. Eventually, she doesn’t stiffen when I try to hold her. As soon as she allows me to, I pull her close, grateful that I still have my sister, until the dampness of my towel breaches her pajamas, and she shoves me away.

Talk to me,I silently urge, biting back burning tears.Tell me that you hate me getting you wet. Tell me that you hate leaving our home and want to go back. Tell me what you want and how to help you.

I’d give anything to have one of our fights. Twelve-year-old girls are supposed to be on the brink of adolescence with an attitude to match their perceived self-importance. We spent years fighting over anything and everything, especially bathroom time and clothes. My clothes were too adult for her age and too large, but that never stopped Sage from borrowing them without permission.

I’d give anything to fight with my sister again. Right now, I’m flying by the seat of my pants and only know when I’ve done the wrong thing after the fact or when a specialist gives me that look and asks, “Are you sure no other family can take her in? Being orphaned …”

No.

I refuse to ruin my face with more tears. Not today. I’ll cry on the 32ndof next month. It’s a promise I made myself when I assured our family lawyer that I’m strong enough to take on guardianship.It’s only six years until she’s eighteen … unless she never … no. I won’t go there.

---