Page 4 of Keeper
He winks and Poppy’s throaty laugh pierces through my chest. Annoyance creeps over me as I watch my two brothers blatantly flirt with her. It reminds me of all the other times in my life when they took the spotlight and left me in the shadows.
My voice is gruff when I interrupt. “If you two are done sexually harassing Poppy, maybe you could grab me a broom to clean up this mess.”
Poppy’s big round eyes slant in sympathy. “Sorry about all this, Booker. I guess it’s good I leave the fancy footwork to you guys.”
Camden returns and hands a broom over to me. “No worries, Pop. It’s the strikers who have the golden feet, not the keeper. We’ll let Booker clean this up while Tan and I help you with the rest of your stuff.”
Poppy tries to argue, but the two idiots are already ushering her carefully over the marbles and down the stairs before I have a chance to catch a second glance of her.
That reunion did not go at all as I expected.
I’M MOVING IN WITHBOOKERHarris. I’m moving in with Booker Harris! I’m…moving in with Booker Harris.I sing the last bit in my head because then the statement seems to resonate a bit longer.
It still sounds peculiar, even in a B-flat.
I was prepared to take my time moving back to London when my lease started in July. But one good job offer later and here I am. In Booker’s building. With his brothers. Like nothing’s changed.
Booker’s offer was awfully sweet and incredibly unexpected, especially considering the last time we saw each other was six years ago and it wasn’t the best of goodbyes. But commuting would have been a nightmare, and his flat is very close to the school I’ll be working at. It was silly of me to try and refuse.
Right?
Right.
That’s totally it. Booker’s my best friend and I haven’t seen him since I was nineteen. What better way to reconnect with an old friend than to move in with him for an extended period of time when there’s nowhere to run and hide?
Never mind that I’ll have to share a bathroom with him. So what if I find bonk juice on the shower wall because he has to tug one out after a stressful match. It’s no biggie if he catches me arse over tit as I’m attempting to shave my poop chute. Speaking of which, what happens when I have to poo? Or when he has to poo? We’re mates, right? Totally cool! I won’t mind a bit if he can hear theploop, ploopof me backing a couple out.
Good God, how do couples do this?
How do they decide to cohabitate with each other? Booker and I aren’t even in a relationship! But here we are, blazing right into this without a care in the world like it’s a normal Sunday. Don’t mind me. I’m only moving in with my best mate from childhood who happens to swing a penis between his thighs.
I’m going to have to hide my tampons.
This is easily the maddest thing I’ve done since I left London for University in Frankfurt for reasons I don’t care to revisit. But there is a silver lining: I became fluent in German and earned my Master’s in education. Now I’m able to help mould young minds and teach them the language of the country that birthed the Brothers Grimm, Beethoven, Mercedes-Benz, and Oktoberfest! Those reasons alone were totally worth flying across the English Channel.
I digress.
I’m back in London! This is what I’ve needed. Germany—while lovely and perfect for broadening my horizons—never felt like home. The French have a word for that feeling: Dépayser. To feel displaced from one’s native land or familiar routine. I missed my home country.
And, despite myself, I missed Booker. He is still my best friend and losing him was really hard. So I’m going to take this time with him to reconnect. To help feel right again. He’s convinced that living together will be like old times.
After one brief hug where I wrapped my arms around a large, twenty-five-year-old version of Booker—where I could feel the warmth of him, the firmness of his muscles, remember his scent and how he always hugged me whenever I was sad—I’m convinced that I can do this.
I’m no longer in love with Booker. We’re best friends and nothing more, which is a relief because my eighteen-year-old self was a deluded cow. I almost ruined everything by sharing those silly feelings I thought I had. It was all so foolish. I was such an imaginative child that I had warped basic acts of friendship into acts of true love. Thank goodness I now know the difference.
12 Years Old
“You there.” I turn when a voice from somewhere in the night nearly scares the piss out of me. I see a tall, beautiful brunette with legs up to her armpits striding through the garden right for me. “What are you doing here?”
I quickly swipe away my tears and wipe my nose on my sleeve as she steps out of the darkness and under the motion light streaming over me. I’ve been standing at the backside of the grand Harris house for the past ten minutes, waiting for the painful ache in my chest to stop. Then I was going to climb the twenty-foot trellis into my best mate, Booker’s room. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy. What’s she doing here?
She peers down at me like I’m a hobbit and she’s Gandalf the Grey. Her eyes follow the paths my residual tears left on my cheeks. I’m still rendered speechless. God, her hair is cool. It’s cut into a short bob at her chin and makes her big boobs stand out like round dough balls.
Okay, that’s a lie. Her hair has nothing to do with her boobies. But those are two very nice qualities she has, along with those spider legs of hers.
She laughs and it sounds like Christmas. “Do you speak?”
I push my blonde hair out of my face. I’ve been telling Mum for ages that I want to cut it. “Sometimes,” I mutter, trying to sound cool. I think she buys it.
