Page 8 of Poppy Kisses
Jensen
I parked in front of Alder’s house. He’d done some work on the outside over the spring. The flower beds were turned up and white tulips were blooming. The path to the front had been freshly swept, and the grass had been trimmed away from the stones leading to the steps into the house.
I got out and tugged the sleeves of my long-sleeved shirt down. At least I was wearing one this time when I was seeing Poppy. Even as kids, she hadn’t seen me without a shirt.
We’d been friends for years. Whenever I thought of elementary and middle, Poppy was there. She used to wear her hair pulled back or in a single brown braid with curls spinning out.
Would I get a similar cautious look when she answered the door?
I ran a hand over my short hair. It needed a trim. I hated feeling shaggy, and the longer it was, the more sawdust stuck to the strands. It was why I stayed clean-shaven no matter how much Hassie had gushed about the beards of the cowboys on the circuit.
Dusting off my pants and shirt, I made my way to the door. When I glanced up, the curtains fluttered. Satisfaction spread through me. Had she been watching?
I knocked on a solid metal door, warm from the sun. I tilted my head, but I heard no movement on the other side. Finally, the door creaked open six inches.
Poppy peered out. A pale-yellow cloud surrounded her pupil. She squinted in the daylight. “Hey.”
“How’s it going, four-ten?”
Her left cheek twitched. My old nickname from when she’d been stuck at four feet ten inches while I’d soared over five feet had seemed like a good icebreaker. I was a little over six feet, and she had to be only six or seven inches shorter than me now.
Uncertainty flooded me. Was I wrong about how close we’d been? That last time we’d really talked, when she’d kept me company on a side hill during one of the worst times of my life, had been shortly before she’d moved.
“Debbie said you wanted to talk?” She sounded cautious, like I was going to convince her she could get rich on the latest multilevel marketing scheme.
“I need your help.” There. I came out with it. As embarrassing as this was, it was better than another grocery store incident. Yet the sense that she’d turn around and tell me to drive off hung heavy in the fresh spring air between us.
The door swung a little wider.
Yes.
“What can I help you with?” she asked.
Embarrassment flooded my chest, puffing it up. I wished I could float away from it. If I couldn’t talk to Poppy about this, then who? Debbie might help, but I hadn’t tried asking her. I’d figure out why later. “My business.”
Her brows drew together. Once Hassie had said that she was glad she didn’t have plain brown hair like Poppy. I might’ve been thirteen, but even I had noticed the way some of her strands sparkled like spun gold against the darker brown.
She flicked her tongue out to lick her bottom lip. A part of me I’d kept dormant for a long damn time roused, noticing how pink her tongue was, how plump her bottom lip. Damn.
“What about it?” she asked. “I don’t know anything about construction or cabinets.”
“I know Weston Duke taught you how to wield a hammer.” I’d known her dad by reputation mostly. Our tight group had talked about family as much as we had talked shit to each other.
A smile lifted both sides of her mouth, but then it was like a gate slammed down. She flattened her red lips. “If you’re looking for precision measurements, it’s not me.”
This was an uphill battle and I didn’t know the route to the top. I had no clue why the path had gotten treacherous. “Can we talk? For real?”
Her puffy lips stuck out as she considered my request. “Yeah, of course. Sorry.” She pushed the door open. “Come in. Alder and Daisy are at work, and Laila’s at school.”
“Laila’s a couple of grades behind Auggie.” I stepped into the house and stuffed my hands in my pockets.
The old farmhouse was familiar. The hardwood floor was the same, nicely polished, but the walls were painted a soft shade of off-white. There weren’t more than a few pictures on one wall and a picture of a sunset on the other. Poppy’s mom had adorned the walls when she’d lived here. Pictures, sayings, and artwork had been like wallpaper.
I’d been here once for Poppy’s birthday party. One of her sisters, Clover, had tried to push her way into the festivities the whole day. I had tried to be Hassie’s shadow. A familiar burn of resentment branded the inside of my ribs. That me had long since learned a lesson.
“We can sit in the kitchen.” Poppy waved me after her.
My gaze dropped to her butt cheeks, which looked like they were fighting under her black athletic leggings. Firm and round, I bet they jiggled when they were slapped. My fingertips tingled.
