Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 99399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 497(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 497(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
He shifted his weight, and water dripped onto my knee.
I felt the cold drop like a shock.
“Got it,” Trace said when Dad handed him the wrench. He tightened the bolt with a quick twist. His forearm flexed. Water caught the light. The hair under his arm caught my eye.
I stared like I’d never seen armpit hair before. Why was it so mesmerizing? Why did I suddenly want to run my fingers through it?
He gave the wrench back to Dad, then dragged my chair deeper into the shade without asking, the same way he’d done things for me my whole life. Casual and easy. “Saved you from roasting.”
I quickly drew my knees up to my chest to keep from exposing anything embarrassing to my dad’s best friend. “Thanks?”
He leaned down. Close enough that I could see water drops caught in his eyelashes. “Reading anything good?”
My mouth was dry. “Um.” I looked at the book cover like I’d never seen it before. “It’s about… time.”
“Everything is,” Trace said. Not making fun of me or anything, just being himself. Being normal.
He touched my nose with one knuckle. “Got sunscreen on your nose,” he murmured in a soft, deep voice that rumbled into my chest. Then he mussed my hair like he’d done since I was six.
It meant you’re a good kid and I see you and we’re family.
Today, it made my whole body go hot.
Not embarrassed hot. Not sunburn hot. Something that started in my stomach and spread up my neck and made my thoughts turn to static. His hand was in my hair for maybe two seconds, and my brain just… stopped.
I flinched like something in me needed to hide. Or assess. Or protect.
Or cherish.
“I should—” I gestured vaguely at the house. “Water. I need water.”
“Hydrate.” Trace nodded easily. “Tell your dad I want the good lemonade and not the candle-tasting stuff he made last time.”
Papa made an offended sound. “Sweeten something with agave instead of cane sugar one time…”
“Run, kid. Rescue us,” Trace said, grinning at me like we shared a joke.
I stood up. My legs felt weird. I walked to the house without running because running would be obvious.
I didn’t know what would be obvious about it, but I knew I didn’t want to run like a kid.
I didn’t want Trace to think of me like a kid. Not anymore.
Inside, the air-conditioning hit me like cold water after sitting in the hot sun. I leaned against the counter and stared at the fridge.
What the hell was happening to me? Why now? Why him?
My reflection stared back at me from the microwave door. Pink face. Messy hair. I looked exactly as I had an hour ago, but I didn’t feel the same.
Trace had touched my hair, and my entire body had reacted like… like…
I didn’t have words for it. Didn’t want words for it. If I named it, it would be real.
I filled a glass with water and made myself drink half. The cold traveled down my throat but did nothing to calm my racing heart. I pressed my palm flat on the cool stone counter and counted to ten.
This was Trace. Trace. Who’d been coming to our house since before I could remember. Who knew Dad from work. Who was now Dad’s best friend—
Who’d just touched my hair and made me feel like I couldn’t breathe.
I filled the glass again and dumped it in the sink, hands shaking.
In the music room, I pulled out my notebook with clumsy fingers and opened it to a blank page. The pencil felt too light. I stared at the lines.
I could hear them outside. Papa’s voice carrying through the window, Dad saying something that made Trace laugh, the twins arguing over who got to toss a swim ring into the deep end.
Normal. Everything was normal out there.
I pressed the pencil to paper.
The first line came out wrong. I crossed it out. Tried again. The words wouldn’t come. Instead, I just saw Trace climbing out of the pool, water on his shoulders, the way he’d stretched to reach the umbrella pole, how close he’d been when he leaned down—
I wrote without thinking: He shines brighter than the sun, and I can’t look too long.
My hand stopped.
I stared at what I’d written. The pencil had pressed hard enough to leave a groove in the paper.
No. No no no.
I couldn’t—this couldn’t—
This was Trace.
I folded the page over so I couldn’t see it. My face burned. My stomach hurt. I wanted to rip the page out, throw it away, pretend I’d never even had the thought.
But I couldn’t make myself get rid of it.
I sat there with the notebook closed on my lap, staring at nothing, until Dad called that dinner was ready.
I made it through the meal. Through Trace telling a story about a haunted ice maker that made Papa laugh so hard he snorted. Through clearing plates and rinsing dishes and pretending everything was fine. I let my family do most of the talking and escaped to the front porch as fast as I could.