Page 14 of Wanted You More

After grabbing my bike and waving her off, I head inside to see Wolfe in the living room, watching TV by himself. I beeline for him, messing up his hair from behind until he smacks my hand away. “I see you were far too busy to ask Dad to come get me and my bike,” I tell him, half teasingly. “You would have felt bad if I was kidnapped and sold into sex slavery, you know.”

He doesn’t say anything, but his lips twitch downward at the corners, which tells me he’d care a lot if something happened to me despite the silent treatment.

“I’m going upstairs and taking a nap,” I inform him. “Wake me up when it’s dinnertime?”

He will, but only because Dad will ask him to. Then he’ll go back to the same cold shoulder he’s been giving me since he stormed out of my bedroom.

Ignoring his protests, I peck his cheek and back up toward the stairs, saying, “Love you, nerd. Even when you’re being mean to me.”

He tries hiding the smile.

But not before I see it.

***

Saturday morning, I’mdoing my hair when I see Dad in the corner of my eye. Turning, I smile at him, where he stands in the doorway of my bathroom. “Morning,” I greet, setting down my curling iron on the counter and running my fingers through the styled strands.

He studies my hair. “Your mother always liked doing her hair that way too. She’d spend at least an hour making it perfect.”

I know, I want to tell him. I remember all the times I’d sit on the closed toilet seat watching her do it. “What’s up?” I ask him, knowing he’s not here to talk about Mom’s hair habits.

His hands go to the pockets of his worn jeans as he stares at the tiled floor. He looks uncomfortable, which isn’t necessarily unusual for Dad. Any type of conversation leads to him toying with the hem of his button-down shirts or rocking on his feet as if he’d rather be anywhere else than talking to me.

“This friend of yours…” Clearing his throat, he leans his arm against the doorjamb. “I would be more comfortable if I knew where you were going with her.”

When I told him I had plans, he’d been skeptical until he found out it was with Lyn, not Marybelle. “I’m not totally sure. She just said it’s a get together. But she’s nice and I doubt we could get into any trouble. We’re hanging out in the middle of the day. Plus, she’s southern. They’re all about hospitality and all that.”

That point seems to land right where I need it to, getting him to nod in agreement. “All right, well…” Again, he grows quiet for a second or two. “I think it’s good that you’re making new friends. Even if she’ll only be around for a little while.”

Now, if only Wolfe could make some friends instead of blaming me for not having any. “When I get back later, maybe we can do a game night like we used to when Wolfe and I were younger. I saw the board games stacked in the closet the other day when I was cleaning.”

His eyes widen at the suggestion. Or maybe he’s surprised I cleaned like he’d asked me to. Truthfully, I mostly did it so he’d let me go out today. “I’d like that, pumpkin.”

My heart squeezes at the nickname I haven’t heard in a long time. That’s what he leaves me with before going back to whatever he was doing before. So, I finish getting ready, go downstairs, and wait for Lyn to pick me up.

It isn’t until we’re five minutes into the drive, with some popular pop hit blasting on the radio, when I turn to the driver singing along. Her sleek blond hair is down today, and she’s wearing minimal makeup. People will probably think we intentionally matched because of our similar denim cutoffs and tank top.

“Where are we going anyway?” I ask, knowing I should have pressed her on this long before we were on the road. “I’m assuming you’re not a serial killer because you seem way too bubbly for that.”

She wiggles her eyebrows. “Maybe that’s how I get my victims. I lure them in with my southern charm and then BOOM. Axe murdered.”

I give her a once-over. “No offense, but I don’t think you have the strength for that.” Her arms are scrawnier than mine. “Did you play any sports growing up?”

Her nose twitches. “Nah. Mama wanted me to join cheerleading like her, but I was never the rah-rah type. Plus, my brother Tommy told me I have the talent of tripping over painted lines, so I don’t think they’d want me out there doing flips or trying to hold people up. What about you? You don’t seem like the sporty type.”

With the exception of the few times I’d been snowboarding, I was never in the right headspace to play any sports. I played soccer when I was seven, but only for one season before deciding I hated it. One of the coaches at the high school wanted me to try out for softball once because they needed more players, but I wasn’t going to waste my time because my arm wouldn’t survive the tryout practice.

“I wouldn’t consider myself a team player,” is my reply. “None of my family invested much time in sports. I think my dad watched the Superbowl once, but it was mostly for the commercials.”

“And your mom?” she asks, merging onto the busy main drag.

I’m grateful her eyes are on the road so she doesn’t see my shoulders tightening. “She’s always been more of a bookworm type. You know, reading about sports rather than playing them.”

Lyn hums before perking up and turning the radio dial. “Oh! I love this song!”

I keep my eyes focused on the window and passing scenery as she sings along with her southern drawl, giving the song a little bit of a country edge. It reminds me of Sunday drives with the family when Mom and Dad would sing along to the ’80s rock ballads that would come on no matter how much Wolfe and I begged them to stop.

The longer I think about then, the more my bad arm starts to hurt.

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