Page 13 of The Older Brother
His eyes meet mine, and he bites the tip of his tongue while holding back a full smile.
“Ishouldn’ta lot of things,” he finally says. The way his gaze lingers makes me crazy, and I can’t help but wonder what that list of things he’s ruminating on entails.
“Miss?” A blonde girl with her hair twisted into space buns is leaning out the drive-thru window ahead.
“I’ll see ya,” Rowan says, patting the window’s edge again and this time leaving me behind without pause.
I let my foot off the brake and roll forward slowly, my mind barely able to handle the wake of WTF Rowan left behind, let alone manage payment instructions from the peppy Swig worker waiting for me to scan my phone or card on her payment device.
“Five sixty-four?” she prompts again. I shake my head and snag my phone from my passenger seat and tap it to her screen. I give her a five-dollar tip for putting up with me, then take my soda and move to the open spots along the driveway.
Little sister. That’s what he said. Is that really what he sees when he looks at me? Because the hardon I felt pressed against my ass the other night by the pool says otherwise. And he didn’t have to stop to talk to me just now. He could have waited for me to drive off without seeing him.
No. I’m not buying it. Rowan Anderson didn’t mean that apology just now, nor do I want one from him. And fuck whatever guilt he seems to be wrestling with over the things he did to me—that I let him do.Full consent between two adults. Not a baby and her sitter.
I work myself up so much that by the time I pull out of the parking lot for Swig, my back wheels peel out from my swift punch of the gas. I race across the main road, only slowing when I spot Rowan’s form a few blocks ahead. There’s a public pool at this park. I remember it well from my youth swim meets, and I doubt it’s changed much over the years. I pull to the side of the road to let Rowan make his way back to the park before I blatantly follow him.
The game is in full swing when I pull into the familiar lot. I glance at the pool to my right, fond memories of my first leaps off the high dive pulling up the corners of my mouth. I roll my car window up and shut off my engine, snagging a hair tie from my glove box before grabbing my drink and exiting the vehicle.
Rowan’s back is to me as I walk up, but a few of the guys playing with him glance my way, a couple bumping elbows and snickering to one another. I climb up the small set of bleachers and pull my sunglasses from the front of my jumper, slipping them on so I can stare without it being quite so obvious. It takes Rowan a few minutes to spot me, and he pauses his run across the court for a beat when he does.
I slip my flipflops off and rest them on the bottom bench, making a cushion for my heel as I cross my feet and hike the hem of my jumper up to sun my legs. I twist my hair up with my tie, then lean back on my elbows before glancing to the two boys whispering not so quietly to each other to my right.
“Hi, boys,” I say, smiling as they both laugh nervously, their braces gleaming in the morning sun.
My guess is twelve, maybe thirteen. Their skateboards are propped against the side of the bleachers. They’re probably waiting for Rowan and his friends to finish up so they can practice whatever tricks they think will impress the girls in their grade. I remember the boys like them. I was impressed back then. It takes more than a few tricks to get my attention now, though. Apparently, it takes a twisted form of playing hard to get along with a full sleeve of tats and a trove of family drama.
“Hey.”
I swivel my head to the other side to meet the unfamiliar voice. The guy standing at the end of the bleachers flips open the top of his water bottle and immediately gulps down what I assume is water as his eyes linger on me.
“Hey,” I repeat.
He’s a good-looking guy, probably about Rowan’s age. Maybe younger. It’s hard to tell anymore, and Rowan wears his years a bit heavier than most. He’s lived what feels like more than the twenty-four years that he is.
“You watching your boyfriend or something?” The guy lifts a brow with his question, and I glance beyond his shoulder as a few other guys from the game begin to wander toward us for their break. Rowan remains on the court, shooting jump shots that rattle the chains as they repeatedly sink through the hoop.
I shake my head as my gaze works its way back to my new friend.
“Nope. No boyfriend for me.”
His grin moves in swiftly, as does his quick laughter.
“Well, that’s good to know. You, uh. You like anything you see?” He quirks a brow again, taking another long drink when I don’t answer right away.
Is this guy for real? Is this what pick-up lines are now? The level of ick crawling over my skin is smothering, but I do like the way Rowan keeps glancing at us. There’s a protectiveness in his expression, one emphasized by the regular flex in his jaw.
“Oh, there’s a lot of things I like seeing out here . . .” I tip my chin, awaiting his name.
“Brady,” he says, just as a curled lock of hair slips over his forehead.
“Nice to meet you, Brady. I’m Saylor.” I pull my glasses from my eyes and reach forward with my other hand to shake his.
His grip is firm, though a bit sweaty. His gray athletic shirt is drenched with sweat, but it’s clear that he’s got a decent build underneath. Maybe I should be open to a guy like him. Perhaps an entire summer of Bradys. Flings that I can use to forget about the rules my mom is trying to enforce around my decisions about my future. Summer fun to wash away memories of the boy I thought of as a best friend who ditched me to find himself andhave a summer of hook-ups of his own. A date night, perhaps, with Brady . . . to forget about the way my body teems with electricity at the mere thought of Rowan watching me from afar.
“I’d love to buy you dinner, maybe some drinks.”
I smirk, glancing back to Rowan for a second, just long enough to catch his eyes on me. He’s quit shooting, now, and is just standing in the center of the court with the ball tucked to his side as he watches me turn up the flirt with his friend.
