Текст книги "On the Fence"

Автор книги: Kasie West

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Chapter 7

It was the first night in a long time that I woke up with a start. My hands shook, and I clenched them into fists, then crossed my arms over my chest to try and stop the quivering there as well.

The nightmare always began the same, my mother tucking me into bed, kissing my forehead, and saying good-bye. Rain pounded the window as if trying to make her stay, my heart seeming to keep up with the rapid pattering. After that it was a variation. Sometimes it was a car accident, her car sliding off the side of a road and down an embankment. That nightmare made sense because it was what had actually happened. As such, it was the one I had the most often.

But sometimes there were different versions altogether: hands made of rain ripping my mother from where she stood in my bedroom doorway, instantly liquefying her; a strong wind tearing the roof off our house and sucking her into the night. Tonight she had stood in front of our house, in white pajamas, and the rain itself had sliced bloody cuts down her body until she collapsed to the wet grass, her white nightdress now red, her limp hand filling my view as I stared at its lifelessness.

My new job had deprived me of my late afternoon run, leaving my body less exhausted than normal. I’d have to figure out a new running schedule for Tuesdays and Thursdays. My dad didn’t like me to run alone at night, and it wasn’t often I could talk one of my brothers into going with me.

I lay there staring at the ceiling, wondering what my brain would do to me if I fell back asleep. Late the next morning, we were supposed to play a game of basketball on the elementary school’s outdoor blacktop. I wished it were morning already.

My clock read three a.m., and my now frayed nerves weren’t letting me go to sleep. I rolled out of bed and walked downstairs. First I paced the kitchen, then I went outside. Before I discovered the amazing effects of running four years earlier, I spent a lot of hours in the stillness of my backyard.

I walked the cement around the pool, staring down at the dark water as I did.

A set of headlights swept across the blackness as Mr. Lewis’s truck pulled up next door. I was surprised at how late he was getting home. Lights went on upstairs a few minutes later, and that’s when the yelling started.

I backed up to get a better view of the upstairs. A few more lights flipped on, and then the back door slammed shut. Peering through the cracks of the fence that separated our houses, I saw Braden emerge wearing a pair of boxers and a hastily thrown-on T-shirt, all twisted at the bottom.

“Psst,” I called through the fence. “Braden.”

He looked around and then straight at the fence, not able to see me, but obviously knowing it was someone in the general vicinity.

“Gage?” he asked.

“No, it’s Charlie. What’s going on?”

He walked closer. “Where are you?”

I held my hand above the fence, then he walked straight to me. “You okay?”

He sat down and leaned his back against the boards. I did the same. “My dad just came home . . . drove home . . . drunk out of his mind. I almost wish your dad had seen him driving so he could’ve hauled him in.”

“Why does he feel the need to wake you and your mom up when he’s like that?”

“Because apparently he remembers everything he hates about us when he’s drunk and has an overwhelming desire to share his feelings.”

“That sucks.” The night was warm, and I let it fill my lungs. I pulled on a string hanging off the bottom of my cotton pants. “So you come outside when he’s like this?”

“Usually. I find that if I walk away he eventually cools down. My mom still hasn’t learned that lesson after all these years.”

We went quiet, leaving only the sound of muffled yelling coming from his house. “Is she . . . he won’t hurt her . . . will he?”

“No,” Braden said darkly.

I leaned my head back against the fence. His parents either went to bed or stopped screaming because I couldn’t hear them anymore.

Braden’s voice was lighter when he asked, “And what brings you out on this fine evening?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Really? The soundest sleeper in the universe couldn’t sleep? Why?”

“Stupid job messed with my schedule. I didn’t get a chance to run tonight.”

“Oh yeah, the job. I heard about this miraculous event. How did it go?”

“It was sheer torture. I’m counting down the days until I earn the five hundred bucks necessary to be done with this sentence.”

“Didn’t your dad say something about a hundred bucks a month after that too, though? For insurance or something?”

I groaned. “You’re right. I guess I’ll have to earn another couple hundred and hope I can plea-bargain after that. I think when school starts, that will be a huge argument against having a job.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure out something.”

Stillness took over for a while, and just when I started to think he’d fallen asleep there against the fence, he said, “You playing ball tomorrow?”

“Of course. You?”

“Yeah. Are you playing for the team this year at school?”

I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me. “Uh-huh. Can’t wait for it to start. Talk about exhaustion. School, basketball, gym, homework, bed—now that’s a schedule my body likes.”

“Why?”

Crap. The problem with talking to his disembodied voice was that it made me less guarded. It didn’t feel like I was talking to anyone but the sky. “I just like to sleep good. None of this waking-up-at-three-a.m. crap.”

“Heck yeah,” he said in his best imitation of me (which wasn’t very good). Every time I substituted a bad word with a milder one, he made fun of me by doing his own bad-to-less-bad word substitution. His taunts weren’t going to pressure me into changing things. I was more scared of my dad’s no-cussing rule than I was of Braden laughing at me for it.

“I knew you were going to say that,” I said.

“Oh, really? You knew I was going to say ‘Heck yeah’?”

“Well, some variation of it.”

“You think you know me so well, huh?”

“Yep. Every last annoying habit.”

He gave a single laugh. “Well, it goes both ways. Actually, I probably know you better.”

“You think you know me better than I know you?”

“Yes,” he said confidently. “Because I see you every day, and when I don’t see you, I hear Gage talk about whatever lame thing you guys did.”

“And you don’t think Gage talks about all the lame things you guys do without me?”

“Okay, game on.” That was his competition voice. As he said it, I realized I knew it so well. His voice in general was so familiar to me. I was surprised I could picture his expressions as I listened to him talk. Right now he’d have a smug smile on his face. “We will prove who knows more about the other. We go back and forth stating facts. Whoever runs out first loses.”

“You’re on. I’ll start. You have swampy brown eyes.”

He laughed. “Oh, wow, you’re really starting with the basics.”

“Yep. I said I knew everything. That’s part of everything.” The truth was, I wasn’t sure I did know everything about Braden. As Gage’s best friend, he was as familiar to me as a brother, but in some ways, he was a mystery to me. But I assumed I was the same for him, so I had confidence that I knew him at least as well as he knew me.

“Swampy? Really? You make them sound nasty.”

“Yes, they are swampy.” His eyes were awesome—brown interlaced with green. It was like they couldn’t quite decide which color team they wanted to play for. “Your turn.”

“Fine. You have steel-gray eyes.”

“Oh, I see how you are. Stealing my facts.”

“Yeah, we should be able to match the other person’s fact. If I didn’t know your eye color and you knew mine, I should’ve lost right there. So now you have to match my fact.”

I nodded. “Okay. I get it. Evolving rules. So you’re up then.”

“Right. You suck at math.”

I gasped in mock offense. “Rude . . . but true.” Okay, so I needed to think of a subject in school Braden was bad in. Problem. Braden was an excellent student. So my match could’ve been that he didn’t suck at any subject, but I didn’t want to praise him after he just slammed me. “Oh! Got it. You suck at choir. Supporting evidence: You volunteer for the solo in the seventh grade Christmas program. You forget the song. You sing the few words you remember completely off-key.” I laughed, remembering the cringe-worthy moment. “I think we still have that on home video somewhere.”

“Ouch.” He probably grabbed his chest then, but he had at least half a smile on his face. Braden was good at crooked smiles. “For the record, your brother volunteered me for that solo when I was absent and I beat him for it after the fact. But yes, I suck at choir.”

“My turn,” I said, conjuring up a mental picture of Braden so I could think of my next fact. I almost said he had a scar through his right eyebrow, but that suddenly seemed so personal. Maybe I shouldn’t know that about him. Especially since it was barely noticeable. “You hate to lose.”

“That’s a wash.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, so do you, so those facts cancel each other out. Well, actually, you really don’t like to lose and I just sort of don’t like to lose, so you’re probably right. I should probably think of something you just sort of don’t like.”

“Whatever, punk! You know you hate to lose as much as I do. And the proof of that will come when I beat you at this game and you cry like a baby.”

The arguing renewed in his house and we both fell silent. He sighed. “I guess I should probably go back inside and try to steer him toward sleep.”

“Does that work?”

“Sometimes.”

“Good luck.”

“Yeah.” After he walked a few shuffling steps away, I heard him whisper, “This isn’t over. I will beat you.”

“Never,” I said with a smile.

The next morning when Braden walked in the back door and through the kitchen, where I sat eating breakfast, we both pretended the night before hadn’t happened. I picked up the basketball I had been propping my feet on and threw it at the back of his head as he walked by. He turned around and walked back to where I sat at the bar. He smeared his finger across the top of my peanut butter toast and then stuck the big glob in his mouth as he walked away.

“Gross,” I called after him. I wasn’t sure why we’d both decided to pretend it didn’t happen, but I was relieved he didn’t mention the late-night chat by the fence. It almost made it seem like it took place in a different reality.

Chapter 8

Saturday morning at work was busier than I would’ve liked, but I didn’t see anyone I knew, so that was good. Linda taught me to use the register, and by Tuesday she had the nerve to leave me alone for an hour while she had dinner. I told her if I gave away all the money in the register it was all on her. She told me she trusted me and my math abilities. I didn’t mention that I sucked at math.

Thirty minutes into my alone time with the register, Skye came running in from the back. Her hair was now platinum blond with streaks of green. She had on a flowy, robelike shirt, much like one of the shirts Linda had me buy that I hadn’t dared to wear yet, and was holding a pair of boots in her hand, calling, “Mama Lou!” She slid to a stop on the hardwood floor and looked at me. “Hi, Charlie. Where’s Linda?”

“Eating.”

Her shoulders slumped. She held up one of the boots. “Do you see that?”

I wasn’t exactly sure what she wanted me to see. I obviously saw the big black boot she held up, so there must’ve been some detail about it I was supposed to notice, but for the life of me I didn’t see anything but a boot. “Uh . . . no?”

“I tried on the left boot at the thrift store. This is the right boot. I didn’t even notice it was missing two lace hooks right in the middle. A total rookie mistake.”

I smiled at her use of a sports analogy.

“You don’t know how to fix it, do you?”

I still didn’t even know what she was talking about. “Duct tape?”

She laughed.

“Linda can fix shoes?”

“I don’t know. She always has some creative solution for my problems. How long has she been gone?”

“About thirty minutes.”

“Maybe I’ll wait.” She wandered over to a hutch and started squirting herself with a glass bottle that I thought was just for show.

I straightened some hanging shirts. “I think I saw you the other day, walking with someone holding a guitar case.”

“Henry. My boyfriend. He plays for a local band. Well, I shouldn’t call them local anymore—they’re getting some statewide gigs. It’s pretty amazing. They still play here sometimes, though.” She picked up a different glass bottle and walked over to me. “Can I use your arm? I don’t want to mix scents.”

I held up my arm and she twisted it, palm up, then sprayed a small amount on my wrist.

She put her arm next to mine. “You’re tan.”

“My mother was Mexican.” I bit down on my tongue, hoping she didn’t catch the was I threw in there. I didn’t want to have to explain that word. Especially not when I kind of told Linda my mother was alive.

“Ah. Well, that makes sense.” She smiled, then smelled my wrist and curled her lip. “No on that scent.” She replaced the bottle, then sighed. “I think I will try the duct tape idea after all. It could look really good with these boots.”

“Will you be able to get them off?”

She laughed. “Eventually.” She headed toward the back.

I wondered why she always came that way. She obviously had a key, but if she was coming from her shop a couple of doors down, wouldn’t it be just as easy to walk in the front door?

“Thanks for the good idea, Charlie.” She paused for a moment. “By the way, you look really cute.”

She left, and I looked down at my outfit—a pair of jeans and a satiny black shirt with a little lace around the neckline. I had worn my tennis shoes in to work and Linda immediately called a friend, who brought over a pair of black sandals. Apparently I had committed a fashion foul with my shoes. All I cared about was that the sandals were super comfortable.

A while later, Linda came back into the store carrying a handful of colorful leaflets and ads.

“What are those?”

She spread them out on the counter next to the register. “Makeup ads.” She held one up. “I think I’m going to carry some designer makeup in the store. A girl came by the other day and asked if I’d be interested. I think it will drum up some business. What do you think?”

“I have no opinion in these types of matters. I’m clueless. But I guess it can’t hurt to offer a bigger variety of items.”

“Exactly. Hopefully we’ll get crossover traffic. I’ve been thinking about this for a while now. The girl is going to come in and do a demonstration. She’s thinking about offering weekly makeup classes to draw people in. You get to be her blank canvas for the class.”

She said it so casually that I didn’t catch the meaning at first.

When I realized what she’d said, my hand froze above the ad it had been reaching for. “Wait, what?”

“You’ll just have to sit there. You won’t even have to say a word.”

“No way. Nuh-uh. You should have Skye do it. She was just in here a little while ago.”

“I would, but Skye works on Saturdays. Plus, I think you’d be better at it.”

“In what universe? No way.”

She took a breath and then closed her eyes. Holding her hands about an inch from her body, she ran them from her head to her waist, then opened her eyes like nothing had happened. “Just think on it. I will give you a split commission for whatever we make from the class.” She swooshed her hands back and forth in front of me as though clearing away some invisible dust, hoping to give her idea a clear lane to my brain. “Just think on it.” She handed me one of the makeup pamphlets.

Back home, I walked the path up to the house, staring at the girl on the front. She was coated in makeup. More makeup than I had ever seen on a face in real life. It did not look pleasant to me at all. I sighed and opened the door.

A Nerf gun was shoved into my hand, and Braden grabbed me by the arm and pulled me into the dark front room, pushing me up against the wall. “You are now on my team,” he whispered, no more than two inches from my face. A piece of his reddish-brown hair flopped into his eye and he pushed it back. “Three shots equal death.” He grabbed the pamphlet and the bag full of my work clothes out of my hand and flung them onto the couch five feet away. The makeup ad didn’t quite make it and fluttered to the ground in front of the couch.

“You ready?” he asked, stepping back in front of me. He was so close that his hip brushed against my side. A chill went through me.

He tilted his head and his face moved closer to mine. I froze. Then he sniffed my hair and neck. “What’s that smell?”

For a second I couldn’t answer him. My breath seemed caught in my throat. Then I held up my wrist, between our too-close faces, “It’s a spray from work. A girl, Skye, she sprayed it on me.” My voice came out tight and I let my hand fall back to my side.

Braden lowered his brow. “What’s wrong?” he said. His eyes flickered to my lips, then back to my eyes.

My heart picked up speed. What was going on? I put my arms between our chests, needing a little space. Work was making me weird, I decided. Linda, with all her talk of auras and makeup and fashion, was not good for me. “Nothing.” I looked over his shoulder to the shadowy hall, sure my brothers would’ve heard us by now. We were probably about to get ambushed. “Who’s playing?”

“Everyone.”

“My dad?”

“No. He’s at work.”

I slipped off my shoes so I could be stealthier, hooked my arm in his, and crept along the wall. “We are so winning.”

Braden smiled big. “I knew I made the right choice holdin’ out for you to get home.”

“Darn straight.”

“Let’s kick some butt,” he said, in his horrible imitation of me.

A low voice from across the hall said, “I could’ve killed you guys three times by now. Stop flirting with my sister and get your head in the game. I’ll give you a ten-second head start.”

His accusation made my heart jump. But this was Gage. He was always joking. Plus, he never stopped flirting. Ever. He probably just assumed the same of everyone else. “Shut up,” I said, then pulled Braden the opposite way down the hall. Ten seconds wasn’t very long.

Chapter 9

That night in my room I stared at the girl in the ad some more. Makeup wasn’t so bad. It wasn’t practical with sports—sweat and makeup did not mix well—but I’d worn mascara on occasion. And ChapStick was my best friend. The extra money helping Linda out with this project sounded great to put a dent in what I owed my dad so I could quit this job faster. But there was no way I’d come home with my face caked in the stuff. I’d never hear the end of it. I sighed and shoved the ad in my desk drawer.

I walked in to work Thursday, set the pamphlet on the counter in front of Linda, and said, “It’s not waterproof, right?”

“What?”

“The makeup. I want to be able to wash it off easily when I’m finished.”

“I bet your mom would love to see you all made up.”

This was why it wasn’t good to lie. I’d honestly thought the subject would never come up again. This was way worse than the pity looks she would’ve given me. I shrugged.

She looked back at the ad. “It will come off easily with a good face wash.”

I nodded slowly, still not sure I wanted to do this. “And I won’t have to talk?”

She threw her hands in the air in an excited gesture like she thought I’d made up my mind. “No. Just a canvas. It will be great. She’ll do the first class this Saturday morning.” She pulled a form out from beneath the counter, proving she knew I would agree. “Because you’re underage, I need your mother—well, either of your parents—to sign this consent form. For liability issues. Amber isn’t licensed, which is why she isn’t putting makeup on anyone but you during the class. And also, I’m not worried about it, but if you have some sort of allergic reaction, this says you won’t sue me.”

I nodded and took the form, my eyes scanning over the words but not reading them.

“You should tell your mom to come watch.”

Every time she mentioned my mother, my stomach tightened. I should just tell her the truth and get it over with. Instead the words “My mom has to work Saturday so she won’t be able to make it” came out. My mouth had a mind of its own lately. I held up the form. “But I’ll get this signed.”

“Sounds good. Let’s get to work.”

That night I couldn’t sleep for two reasons: one, because I hadn’t run, and two, because the paper that I had forged my dead mother’s signature on screamed at me. It sat in my desk drawer, yelling at the top of its lungs. I should’ve just asked my dad to sign it. He would’ve . . . probably. After asking lots of questions.

I remembered one time my dad came home with a bottle of conditioner and put it on the desk in front of me. “Do you need this? Carol at work said you might.” I stared at the bottle. Of course I knew what it was, I’d seen enough commercials, but I had never used it before. He had guilt in his eyes like he had somehow failed me. It wasn’t his fault he didn’t know. It would’ve been so much easier if he had four boys. I knew that, and I knew he knew that. “No, I’m good. My hair doesn’t really get that tangled. But thanks. I’ll use it.” And I did. I couldn’t believe I had lived that long without it.

I wondered if he’d feel just as guilty now for not buying me makeup. I sighed and stared at my desk as if the form Linda gave me was going to burn its way through the drawer. I finally rolled out of bed at one a.m. and turned on the lamp on my nightstand. What was wrong with me? I had justified the act by telling myself that the release was just a formality. I wasn’t going to have an allergic reaction, so it was unnecessary. And my dad would never find out. It wasn’t like this paper would be sent to the government to check and verify. It would get filed away in the ugly metal desk in the stockroom at Bazaar, never to be pulled out again.

I made my way downstairs. Once in the kitchen, I had a clear view of Braden’s house. His bedroom light was on. I grabbed my phone and texted him. Up for a fence chat?

Yep.

“Hey,” he said when we stood separated by the wooden barrier.

“Hi.” I waited for him to talk first, even though I was the one who’d called him out here. I felt embarrassed by the rashness of that decision. Instead of facing the fence, staring at his shadowy figure through the slats, I adopted our previous pose of sitting, back to the fence, then looked up at the moon. It was so much easier to talk to the moon than to Braden. At least about real stuff. I listened as he did the same thing.

“So, you’re up late tonight,” I said.

“Yeah.” He offered no explanation.

My neck hurt, and I rubbed at it. “Have you ever done something stupid and then felt incredibly guilty about it?”

“Yes.” Again, he didn’t expound. “What did you do?”

Pretended my life was whole. “Lied.”

“To who?”

“My boss.”

“About?”

“About . . .” Why did the moon make me want to spill all my secrets to Braden? “. . . something really dumb, but now I don’t know how to tell her the truth.”

“What’s your boss like?”

“Weird. I think she took one of those spiritual journeys around the world or something and thinks she’s reached some sort of inner peace. Now her self-imposed job in life is to fix broken spirits.”

Braden sometimes pulled on his bottom lip when he was thinking, and I could hear that he was doing that when he said, “And she thinks your spirit is broken?”

The clouds around the moon glowed white. “No. Not mine. Well, yes, mine, but not just mine, everyone’s. She thinks everyone has a broken spirit.”

“Everyone but her.”

“Yes, exactly.”

“So you lied to keep her out of your personal business?”

“Yes.”

“Then stop worrying about it. She doesn’t need to butt into your life anyway. If it’s nothing big then just forget about it.”

I just reincarnated a dead person, that’s all, nothing big. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“Is that a first?”

“What?”

“Me being right?”

“Ha. Ha.” And then it was quiet. So quiet I could hear his breaths, deep and long. With each breath, it seemed, my shoulders relaxed.

“But if it is something big . . .” He trailed off and my shoulders immediately tensed again. “It will just eat at you.”

I knew this was true. It was already making a meal of my insides. “Well, as long as it starts with some of my more useless organs, then I have some time.”

He laughed.

“You eat a lot of carrots.”

“Uh . . . what?”

“You like carrots. That’s my fact about you. You know, in the game of proving I know more about you and your boring life than you know about mine.”

“But carrots aren’t my favorite food.” He’d sounded smug when he said it, like he was announcing I had lost.

“I didn’t say they were. I said you eat a lot of them. Maybe they’re not listed next to ‘Favorite Food’ in your ‘My Favorite Things’ diary entry, but you like them.”

“No, they’re listed next to ‘Favorite Vegetable.’”

“I knew it.”

“Okay, my match . . . You are forever eating Cocoa Krispies. Loudly.”

“It’s a loud cereal.”

We spent the next several minutes listing off the other items that were in our fictitious Favorite Things diary entries. His: color—blue, subject—history, food—steak, and day—Saturday. Mine: red, PE, pizza, and Friday (previously Saturday until work butted in).

“I have one,” he announced. “You hate girls who wear sparkly words across their butts.”

I laughed. “How could you possibly know that?” I had never said that pet peeve out loud.

“Because I see the look on your face when a girl with the word juicy on her butt is walking in front of us. It’s pretty funny.”

“Yes, it’s true. I’m not a fan.” I raised a finger in the air even though he couldn’t see me. “Never date a girl who feels the need to make her butt a billboard.”

He gave a little humming noise.

“What?”

“I think that’s the first time you’ve ever given an opinion about who I should date. What else should I avoid?”

“I don’t know your type of girls, Braden.” Girly girls were so far out of my circle of friends that I didn’t even begin to try to understand them. “I have no idea what makes a girl undateable. Truthfully, I’m not even sure a girl with a sparkly announcement on her butt isn’t worthy, seeing as how I’ve never spent more than one minute talking to a girl like that.”

“I’m sure Gage will bring one home eventually, and then you can find out.”

I laughed. “True.”

“What did you mean by that, anyway?”

“By what?”

“That you don’t know my type of girls?”

“I hang out with athletes.”

“And?”

I paused, a little surprised. Was he saying he would date my teammates if I set him up? It had been a while since Braden had a girlfriend, but I was pretty sure his last one knew more about nail patterns than defensive patterns. “And . . . I guess I don’t know your type.”

He chuckled. “I find that hard to believe.”

My cheeks prickled and goose bumps formed on my arms. I didn’t let my mind follow that implication down any of the paths it seemed to want to go. That didn’t mean anything. It really didn’t. He just meant that I knew him well, so I knew exactly the type of girl he would date. And I did. One who did her hair and knew how to pick out cute clothes and didn’t wear running shoes everywhere.

Braden cleared his throat. “Do you have a match for my fact, or did I win?”

It took me a minute to remember what his fact was. I had to backtrack to the sparkly-words-across-the-butt comment. “You honestly think you’re going to win that easily?” So did his fact mean that in order to match I had to figure out something he hated about guys? I pictured Braden at school. Even though he was a jock he was fairly inclusive. “Okay, so since I don’t really hate girls with the word juicy on their butts, I just think it’s a poor fashion choice, I’m going to match with loafers.”

“Loafers?”

“You think guys shouldn’t wear loafers.”

He gave a breathy laugh. “I’ll give you credit for that one.”

“But . . .”

“But what?”

“But it’s not quite right. So if it’s not poor fashion, what is it about loafers that you don’t like?”

“It’s not so much the loafers as it is the guys wearing the loafers.”

“Oh, really?” That was news to me. “What about them?”

“They’re usually rich, preppy snobs who think the world owes them something. Frat types.”

“Wow, all that from a pair of shoes? Are you generalizing, Braden?”

“Maybe. Just be wary of useless shoes, Charlie. What someone wears on their feet says a lot about them.”

I looked down at my bare feet and wiggled my toes. I wondered if that rule applied to girls, too, or just guys. “Noted. So no dating guys who drink V8, wear loafers or too-short jeans—”

“Who set the too-short jeans rule?”

“Gage.”

“Good call.” I could hear the smile in his voice when he said, “How many rules has he given you?”

“Too many. I don’t remember half of them.” Most of them were jokes, I knew, but it was hard to feel like any guy would ever measure up to my brothers’ ridiculous guidelines.

“Don’t worry, I’ve been keeping notes for you. I’ll add that one to the list.”

I laughed.

Braden let out a large yawn. “Okay. I better get to bed or you’re going to school me in soccer tomorrow.”

I smiled. Considering how crappy I felt when I came outside, I was surprised at how my insides seemed to soar. “Make sure you wear the right shoes.”

“Always.”