Page 54 of Hearts to Mend

It’s a problem. That Rico-magic magnetism coupled with the worrisome hole in his heart have colluded to push aside a few key conversations. Like: Who are we to each other? What are we doing here? What does our future look like? He keeps calling it love, but what does that even mean to him these days? What does it mean to me?

Case in point: Rico comes to stand in front of me and turns that bright smile on with a wink. All those teenage-horndog pheromones whoosh through me, and instantly I forget about the conversations we haven’t had yet. With one wink, he makes me stupidly smitten, and all I want to do is kiss him.

So I do.

It’s not a big tongue-y kiss, just a peck. And I only wrap one arm around his neck when I reel him in and plant my lips on his. But it’s enough to make this thing of ours official, sealed with a public kiss.

But in a town like Krause, everyone knows it’s more than just a kiss. Everyone hears the silent promises I’ve made to him—and I hope, trust, he’s making those promises to me too—right here in front of my crewmates and my dad and all his barfly buddies. With this kiss, I’m claiming Rico…officially…again.

When I pull away, Rico looks dumbstruck. He knows what it means too. His grin goes wide. I just shrug.

“Hey, man.” Drew claps Rico on the shoulder, and they do some elaborate handshake and hug maneuver; male affection is so complicated. “Good to see you up and at ‘em! How are you feeling? Dee says the procedure is tomorrow.”

“Yep.” Rico nods to Drew. “Feeling all right, thanks to you and Dee. I owe you a beer for that quick save.”

Drew chuckles. “Well, I definitely won’t turn one down.”

Once the greetings and introductions are out of the way, we start a game of 501 darts with Drew, Rooster, Watts, and our buddy Kramer from Engine 12.

Rico plays poorly on the first few sets, which isn’t a surprise. While he’s getting by well since the stroke, his dexterity took a hit. His aim with his left hand is off; darts bounce off the wire more often than they impale in the sisal fiber of the board.

Despite his obvious handicap, Rico is betting large on himself, challenging the guys to a friendly wager. Normally, we gamble for shots of whiskey, but considering Rico has a heart procedure scheduled for tomorrow morning, no one is encouraging him to drink. So the bet is a $50 pot to the winner. I put my money in the pot, too, even though I know it’s a sucker bet.

Sure enough, when it’s Rico’s turn to throw, he switches hands. And there it is, the reason you should never bet against Rico.

“Hey now,” Rooster crows, “What’s this? Are you…what’s it called…?”

“Amphibious,” Drew offers.

“Ambivalent,” Watts suggests.

“Hardy har har.” Rooster rolls his eyes at the guys, then shouts, “Oh! Ambidextrous!”

Rico shrugs, then he hits a triple twenty, a triple eighteen, and a double sixteen. He turns around with a wickedly bashful grin.

“You dirty dog!” Rooster hoots.

“Dart shark!” Drew agrees.

Rico looks over at me and waggles his brow. Oh, it’s on now! Challenge accepted!

When it’s my turn, I step up to the line, sway a little on my feet to loosen up, and then I throw one, two, three in quick succession: two triple twenties and a double eighteen.

I howl and fist-bump everyone on my way over to my beer and Rico.

He stands back, watching me with heat in his eyes. He leans close. “Think you can beat me, baby?”

The flirty tone of his voice, the warmth of his breath, the challenge in his words; they all do tingly things to my nervous system. “Oh, I know I can.”

The guys laugh and drink, barely putting any effort or arithmetic into their games, but when it’s time for Rico or me to throw, it’s all quiet as they watch us do what we do best: compete.

“How about a friendly wager just between us?” Rico asks in a whisper, his breath hot on my cheek.

“What did you have in mind?”

“Whoever wins this round gets to pick the position.”

I roll my eyes. “Oh really? You’re assuming we’ll be fucking later, eh?”

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