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“Stop saying lil, oh my god!”
“Fine, a big one then!”
“It was big to me, as a matter of fact,” I snapped, giggling as I picked up my nightly serum to pat into my skin. “That nasty circle rash on my leg ruined a whole summer when I was eleven. It wasn’t mud though. It was the beach. South Padre will never see me again.”
“See there?!” Tatum chortled. “Gotcha nose turned up at the mud, meanwhile, it’s your hoity-toity beaches and them damn sand fleas!”
“So you admit that outside is just nasty as a concept then? Cool, we’re on the same page.”
“I said no such thing,” he countered. “I’d never. I don’t touch dirt enough, I start feeling withdrawals and shit.”
“Oh you’re country down, I see.”
“To the bone, sweetheart.”
“So… can I ask… why are you playing football then?” I unscrewed my moisturizer to dip the back of my nail in, retrieving exactly what I needed for my face. “I mean, besides being good at it, obviously. If you’re happier being at Wildwood, why not do that?”
“Uh… it’s kinda complicated, actually. And I wouldn’t say I’m happier at Wildwood, just more… at home. Everybody else in my family is there, stayed close. Working the ranch in some capacity. I just didn’t personally have quite the same connection, so… I had to explore my own thing. I can do all the usual stuff, but I’m not… impressive at it. On the football field though… different story.”
“Gotcha.” I nodded. “And it seems like your family is hugely supportive? They were at that last game, right?”
“Big time,” Tatum agreed. “At a lot of Kings games, there’s at least one Wilder in the box.”
“Aww. I love that.”
“You gon’ come see me play next season?”
“Come watch you knock people over? That could probably be arranged.”
“Bet. You can’t be ghosting me in the meantime though.”
“I’d never!”
“You already have a pattern!” he accused as I left the bathroom to change into sleep clothes.
“I told you what that was!” I defended, laughing. “You know I was trying to play it cool!”
“And now you know… you don’t have to do that. Not with me.”
I sighed. “Yeah. We’re vibing.”
ELEVEN
AURORA
I felt great.
Like, better than I had in a long while.
Maybe the massage plus dinner duo I’d hit up with Sierra, which led to a sleepover at her house while we cackled—and cried—and caught up over bottles of wine.
Yes, bottles.
The fact that I wasn’t still burrowed under the covers in the dark was a testament to just how freaking great I felt.
The nasty-ass hangover cure smoothie she’d forced me to drink probably had something to do with it.
And… Tatum.