Page 92 of The Problem with Perfect

“Fuck, Bellamy.” Rusty groans, then slaps my ass.

I whimper at the feel of it, and it isn’t much longer before I toss my head back, certain I’m going to tear my bedding apart with the forceful way my muscles seem to contract, the pleasure lancing through me. Rusty shouts out his release a moment later and stills before slumping over me, spent.

We lie there panting from the exertion for long moments, eventually crawling back into bed and entwining our bodies together, returning to our cocoon. We both fall asleep like that.

Safe, warm, sated.

And secure in each other’s arms.

* * *

“You look disgusting.”

My eyes widen at Bishop’s declaration.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re all in love and shit. It’s gross.”

I roll my eyes, leaning my phone against the paper towel holder in the center of the kitchen island.

“Call me disgusting again and maybe I won’t answer your FaceTimes anymore,” I threaten.

He narrows his eyes dramatically. “You wouldn’t dare.”

I give him a sassy smirk. “Try me.”

Bishop shakes his head, but there’s a smile there, and I know we’re just teasing.

“Did you and the old man get things figured out?”

“Don’t call him the old man.”

“What? He’s in his 30s.”

“He’s older, but that doesn’t make him old.”

“Sure.”

I snort. “Anyway,” I say, drawing out the word, making it clear that we’re moving on from that thread of conversation. “Yes, we got things figured out, and we are dating for real now.”

Bishop nods. “Good. He called me a while back, wanted my opinion.”

“I know. He told me.”

I was surprised at first, but it also made sense. Bishop might not live in Cedar Point anymore, but there is nobody in this world that I’m closer to. It’s hard not to create a deep bond with someone when you share a womb and are then together 24/7 for 18 years. Ultimately, I consider him to be my best friend, so after hearing from Rusty about their conversation, I appreciate that the two of them talked.

“Thanks for saying what you did,” I tell my brother, feeling truly grateful. “And Rusty wanted me to tell you a case of the summer IPA is already in the mail to you.”

Bishop laughs, and we shift into conversation about how camp is going. It’s being held at UCLA, and the main thing he complains about is being ‘back in the dorms’ after enjoying apartment living for the past two years.

Because he’s in LA, he’s been using his off days to enjoy the beach, watch Dodger games, and go out in Hollywood. It sounds like a blast, but I’m mostly jealous that he’s also been able to see our baby sister, Busy, who decided to stay near her college in Glendale and work over the summer.

“You’ve got the draft thing and then you’re coming home?” I clarify as we’re preparing to get off the phone.

“It’s called the Draft Combine,” he says, chuckling. “But yeah, I’ll be home when it’s over.”

I nod, knowing this is what he’s been working toward for his entire baseball career. Bishop has often said he’s totally okay with the idea of not going pro, but I know him too well to have ever believed that. He wants it more than anything.

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