Page 129 of Drop Shot

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I snap my fingers. “Exactly. It’s like tennis. I can’t expect you to be a pro.”

“But it’s bracelets,” Junie gripes, taking the salad bowl her mom hands her. “It’s not that hard.”

Her exasperation with me is amusing.

“Juniper,” her mom scolds. “Be nice.”

“I am nice,” she mutters, heading outside.

Whimsy laughs at her sister’s retreating figure. “I love her so much.”

“She’s a blast,” I agree.

Whimsy grips my wrist and stands on her tiptoes, lips pursed for a kiss. I’m more than happy to oblige.

She pulls away with a soft laugh, carefully wiping away some of her gloss from my lips.

This feeling in my chest—of completeness and a happiness that only Whimsy gives me—has me wondering why I was so anti-relationship before. But maybe I was always waiting for her and didn’t know it.

She hands me a bowl to carry outside, and we join her family.

Losing in the first round of Wimbledon might’ve sucked, but honestly, I’m not as sad as I probably should be, because if I hadn’t lost, I wouldn’t be here with her and her family right now, and this feels like exactly the place I need to be.

After dinner, I offer to help wash the dishes, but Junie commandeers me for more bracelet making. When Whimsy and I finally manage to leave, the tips of my fingers are sore. Bracelet creation is serious business.

When we leave, it’s completely dark out already despite the longer summer days.

“That was my high school.” Whimsy points out as we pass by the building.

“Really?” I ask, surprised. I like getting to know these tidbits about her. There are things I’ve picked up just by being near her all these years, but there are still things like this that I don’t know.

“Yeah.” She points to the football field. “I was a cheerleader.”

I pull the car off the side of the road and put it in park. Draping my arm over the steering wheel, I turn to face her. “You were a cheerleader? This is new to me information.”

She gives an unbothered shrug. “I didn’t think it was important.”

I scoff. “Do you still have your uniform?”

“No,” she laughs. “We had to return them.”

“Fuck,” I groan, letting my head fall back against the headrest. “There goes my fantasy—maybe we can buy you a Halloween cheerleader costume?” I suggest.

“Oh my god.” She shoves my shoulder. “Please tell me you’re not picturing me in my cheer outfit right now.”

“Do you want me to lie?”

“Elias,” she laughs. “You’re insane.”

“I’m a guy, baby. You told me you were a cheerleader and you think I’m not picturing what you looked like in that tight little uniform and imagining taking it off you? Now who’s the real crazy one here?”

I shut the car off and she asks, “What are you doing?”

“I want to see the football field.” I undo my seatbelt and nod for her to do the same.

“Why?” Her tone is skeptical.

“Indulge me.”