Page 4

I go downstairs, and Ronnie and Langston are sitting around in pink fluffy bathrobes, watching something on Netflix.
“Oh, I like the new look, guys.”
“Do you think it enhances my complexion?” Langston frames his face with his hands.
“It really brings out the color in your cheeks.” I take a seat on the couch next to him. “Where did you find the pink bathrobes? All I got was this boring white one.”
“They were hanging up.”
“Mine came with shoes too.” Langston models his feet in pink fuzzy flip-flops.
“I think those are my mom’s,” Ronnie says.
“Didn’t you guys bring extra clothes?” I change the subject.
“We weren’t really planning to swim, so no,” Ronnie says. “We’re just waiting for our stuff to dry.”
“Rosie’s having someone bring me clothes from home.”
“That’s what I should have done,” Ronnie says.
“You really think Valentine will be ready to race again?” Langston must really be shaking in his boots if he’s bringing it up again.
“Do you feel threatened?” I ask with a challenge in my voice and a smile I can’t help.
He scoffs. “Hardly. I’m pretty secure in Thunder’s ability to dominate the race.”
“I guess we’ll have to see about that,” I say. “Valentine might just prove you wrong.”
2
LANGSTON
“Langston, you’re home,” my mom says when I come in the door. She’s sitting on the couch with some sort of container of food on the coffee table near her.
“Hey, Mom. How did you get in here?” It’s pretty typical for her to randomly show up in my house, so I should know better by now than to even bother asking.
“Stella let me in.”
She’s referring to my housekeeper, who is close to the family. Stella was my sister-in-law’s maid of honor at her wedding to my brother.
“I brought you some of my home-baked muffins.” She stands and hands me the container.
“That was nice of you. But you didn’t have to do that. You know I have Powell to cook for me,” I say, referring to the world-class chef I employ.
“I know. But I was in the mood to bake.” The truth is, she doesn’t have to bake either. She has her cook, Lidia, to create tasty treats for her.
I wander into the kitchen, and she follows me there. It’s dark, and I speak to the device controlling my home to get the lights to turn on. When the room is well-lit, I put the muffins on the counter and open the lid.
“I’ll never get used to the crazy technology you have in your house,” Mom complains.
“It’s called a smart home.” I worked with an architect to design my house myself when I was twenty. I’ve had it frequently updated over the years with all the latest innovations. My mom hates it because she can’t figure out how to get any of it to work.
“I know. You’ve told me plenty of times.”
I can’t help smiling. It’s a conversation we’ve had a lot. Mom loves social media, but her house is far from technologically advanced.
I pull out a blueberry lemon muffin and peel off the wrapper. I sit at my table so I don’t get crumbs all over the floor. Even though I have a team of people to keep my house clean, I don’t like making messes. My older brother Weston tells me I shouldn’t worry about it, that it creates job security for my workers. I guess he has a point, but I’m still a bit of a neat freak.