Page 6 of Keeper
“But, why? That sounds awful.”
I sniffle and wipe my nose on my shoulder before answering. “Gran always said that when you love someone enough, your sole purpose in life is to make sure they are good enough to get to Heaven. Pink always made sure I was good enough, so I had to be there to make sure God knew Pink was good enough, too.” My voice trembles and a sob bubbles in my throat. When do I run out of tears? When I do, will I make more tears if I drink more water? I hate tears.
“Oh, Poppy,” Booker soothes as he shuffles me over to his bed to sit down. I rest my head on his shoulder and he tucks me under his arm. “He was a good dog and he definitely made it to Heaven.”
“I don’t know how Dad does that to dogs every day. Puts them to sleep. It’s nothing like when they really sleep. His eyes stayed open. It’s the grossest thing I’ve ever seen. I thought I wanted to be a veterinarian like Dad, but never again. I hate everything about that place.”
Booker shushes me, and I stop sniffling for a moment so I can yawn. “Do you want to sleep over?” he asks.
I nod even though I know I shouldn’t. Mum said a couple years ago that Booker and I couldn’t have sleepovers anymore because we were getting too old. Yet she doesn’t mind when I stay over at Emma’s house. It’s not fair.
I lie down on the edge of Booker’s small bed and we face each other. Suddenly, he sits up and turns his bedside lamp on, casting the room in dim yellow light. I squint at his dark eyes as they pin me with sadness. “Sorry, I know you hate to sleep in the dark.”
I smile and attempt to close my eyes, now comforted by the light shining on my lids and the warmth of him next to me. But Pink’s eyes appear behind my lids. “I can’t stop seeing Pink’s sad little eyes, Booker. Who will make sure I make it to Heaven now?”
He exhales and wipes a tear running down my nose. “You have me for that, silly.”
I follow the Harris Twins up the four flights of stairs to the second floor, watching them balance three boxes each to my one. They razz each other the entire way up, and I smile as memories of our childhood trickle in. Booker and I used to hide from Camden and Tanner all through the park, making up scenarios where we were chasing down bank robbers in a high-speed chase. We loved playing MI6, mostly because it let Booker be boyish and it let me use my imagination. He didn’t even mind when I said that I had to sing in order to open up all the secret passages. It was fabulous.
I wonder if I can get Booker to sing now?
When we reenter the flat, Booker’s standing in the middle of the living room. My eyes are instantly drawn to him, drinking in every square inch and noting all the subtle changes about him.
After tripping and spilling my shit all over, I never got a chance to really take in the sight of him. Of how much he’s changed. How much he’s matured. Now that I can, I notice how different he looks. True he still has that dark, tousled hair that curls at the ends when it needs a cut. And those smooth, curved facial features with dimple creases that will forever make him look more like a boy than a man. Even that tenderness he gets in his dark eyes lurks within.
It’s all still there.
But now there’s something else. Something more powerful. Maybe it’s the way he stands with his arms bowed away from his sides as if he’s ready to catch something. Or the thick muscles that line his shoulders to his neck. Or the satiny olive skin covering the veins down his forearms. He has apresenceabout him now. He feels larger than the room.
I swallow hard and barely hear Camden tell Booker they’re going to leave because Cam has a team meeting. The boys wave their goodbyes to us, and the audibleclickof the door closing makes my mouth turn to cotton.
Not ready to meet Booker’s dark eyes head-on, I twirl on my heel and begin rummaging through a couple boxes in the kitchen to find the gadgets I have to contribute. I didn’t bring much because Booker informed me the flat came fully furnished. So my boxes consist mostly of clothes, toiletries, and a few odds and ends I thought we’d need.
I’m taking a mental inventory of everything I brought in a vain attempt to forget that we’re alone now. Just me and Booker.Booker and Poppy…sitting in a tree…K-I-S-S-I—
My thoughts stop when I hear his footsteps approach behind me. I steel myself and turn to look at him. He’s smiling at me—that same boyish smile that’s always a little bit soft around the edges, like he has a secret that no one else knows.
He crosses his arms and leans against the kitchen counter. “Poppy.”
I smile and blow a piece of hair out of my eyes. “Booker.”
“It’s really good to see you, even if you do have a lot less hair than before.” He narrows his eyes on me speculatively.
I shake my head so my fringe fans over my eyes. “Look. There’s more than you think.” I grab hold of the tresses in a fist. “It’s still a good fistful.”
His eyes widen. “And what were you getting up to in Germany that required enough hair to grab hold of?”
I release the locks and pin him with an odd look. Booker and I don’t really talk about our romantic relationships. It’s one area we’ve always avoided. Is that really where he’s going with this line of questioning?
“Probably nothing different than what you get up to in England. Or wherever your football travels take you, I’m sure.”
He quirks a sardonic brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean, I’m sure you don’t have to sleep alone very often, Book.” He’s not going to fool me into thinking he’s been celibate these past few years that his football career has taken off. The Harris Brothers are a hot ticket item in London. I’m sure he hardly has to lift a finger for a shag.
He gets an awkward look on his face and then diverts his gaze to my boxes. “Tell me which boxes go to your bedroom.”
Good change of subject, Book.
