Page 8 of Drop Shot (On the Court #2)
I sip at my own lemonade and it’s downright heavenly. It’s a reminder that I really should visit home more often when I’m in the area. Normally, I’m so happy to be in my own space again that I don’t venture out much.
“You’ve been holding out on me, Whim.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s not like I possess these skills.
Don’t look at me if you’re looking for some fresh sourdough.
My mom swears sourdough starter is deceivingly easy, but somehow, I never managed to make mine last and now…
” I shrug, sitting down on the end of Junie’s bed.
“With traveling so much there’s definitely no way I’m getting it to last.”
He nods like he understands but I highly doubt he knows anything about a sourdough starter.
“Our mom also makes bracelets and things like that. She’s the best,” Junie says, stirring her straw in the liquid.
“She sounds like the best mom,” he says, smiling at my sister.
I know this isn’t real, that we’re just playing pretend, but I also know that Elias is being nice to my sister just because he wants to and it does something funny to my heart.
“Come on.” Junie reaches for his hand. “Let me show you the bracelet station.”
“You’re in for it now,” I warn him playfully, following behind them.
“That’s fine.”
His tone says he truly doesn’t care what Junie drags him into and fuck if that doesn’t make my heart go even softer for this guy.
That’s the thing about Elias—he truly is impossible not to like.
Downstairs, she leads him past the kitchen straight back to the small addition we call the sun porch. It’s more of a hobby room than anything else.
“Sit.” She all but shoves the giant man into a chair, which is rather amusing considering the difference in their size. “Do you know how to make bracelets?”
“Um … no,” he admits.
“Don’t worry. I’ll show you.” She sits down beside him and starts opening the drawers filled with beads.
“I’m going to see if Mom needs any help.”
Juniper waves me away with an annoyed jerk of her fingers.
I leave them to their bracelet making and find my mom in the kitchen cutting up tomatoes. She smiles as soon as she sees me, her familiar yellow apron draped around her thin frame and her hair now pulled back with a clip.
“Do you need any help?” I ask.
“Always,” she smiles, sliding the cutting board over for me to finish.
I wash my hands and get to work. “I thought I’d make BLTs for lunch. I just made a fresh sourdough loaf this morning.” Under her breath, she adds, “And an extra one your dad doesn’t know about for you to take with you.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Anytime.” She presses a kiss to the side of my head as she passes, grabbing bacon from the refrigerator.
I’m so lucky to have parents like mine. Growing up, I often saw other kids in school with parents who fought or didn’t care to spend time with their kids. Mine, if anything, have always been a little too involved.
I finish the tomatoes and move on to cleaning the lettuce and dressing it with fresh lemon juice.
“Elias seems kind,” my mom says casually. Bacon sizzles and pops in the pan. “Even better looking in person than on TV.”
I try not to laugh at her attempt at subtlety. “What is it you’re getting at, Mom? Spit it out.”
She plants a hand on her hip. “I’m just wondering if this is as new as you two claim or what? It’s okay if you’ve been seeing each other longer and been keeping it on the down low.” She gestures with her hand like she’s going low. “I can keep a secret from your dad.”
I rinse my hands of the sticky lemon juice and shake the water off my hands before grabbing a clean towel.
“No lies have been told, Mom. This is pretty new. No secrets have been kept from you. Promise.” She sighs, lips downturned with doubt. “I’m serious, Mom. Cross my heart.”
“All right.” She raises her hand in a gesture that she’s going to let it go, but knowing her I highly doubt that’s the truth. “I see the chemistry. It just doesn’t seem plausible you two would’ve been able to ignore it until now.”
I stifle the urge to retort that there’s no chemistry, but that would be a dead giveaway that something’s not right with this situation and it would send her mom senses tingling.
“Of course you see chemistry,” I reason. “We’re dating.”
She purses her lips and I know she still isn’t quite buying it, but by some miracle she doesn’t press further.
We work in companionable silence until it’s interrupted by Elias poking his head in the kitchen. I can’t help but wonder what he thinks of the bright green cabinets and pink quartz countertops. It’s not the norm, that’s for sure, but I wouldn’t expect anything less from my parents.
“I was wondering if I could get some more lemonade?” He holds out his empty glass.
My mom beams with pride, quickly hurrying over to snag the glass from him. “You liked it?”
“Like is an understatement, ma’am. That’s the best lemonade I’ve ever had.”
“That’s quite the compliment, and please, call me Jules.”
He works his charm, giving my mom his signature smile, dimple popping in his cheek. “Jules.”
I swear my mom is blushing. I shake my head and try not to laugh. This man.
“Lunch is almost ready. I hope you’re hungry,” she tells him, handing him a newly full glass.
“I’m always hungry.”
“Perfect. Tell Junie Bug to wash up and show you outside to the table.”
He sips at the lemonade, watching me over the rim. I’m not sure what he may be trying to read in my expression so I’m careful to keep my face blank.
“Will do.”
My mom and I assemble the sandwiches and carry them outside, my dad joining us from his office I presume. Once we have an assortment of chip bags on the table and a full pitcher of lemonade, we dig in to eat.
The BLT might be one of the simplest sandwiches to make but there’s something special about my mom’s version. Despite making them with her, I’ve never been able to recreate them in the same way on my own.
“This is great,” Elias says. “A truly spectacular sandwich.”
I have to smother the urge to roll my eyes at his over the top compliment.
“My mom is a sandwich master,” Juniper says, smiling around a gaping bite missing from her own sandwich.
“You all are too kind.”
Clearing his throat, my dad says, “So, when do you kids hit the road again?”
“This next tournament is in Miami so we’re still here for a little while yet,” Elias explains. “Have you ever been to a match?”
“No, we’ve never been,” my mom says at the same time that my dad says, “I prefer golf.”
As eclectic as my parents are it always manages to amaze me that my dad actually enjoys golf.
“If you’d like to attend one, I’d be happy to get you all tickets. You can sit with Whimsy.”
Both of their eyes go to Junie. I know what they’re thinking.
Tennis is a sport in which the spectators are expected to be quiet.
It’s impolite to call out, scream, or even have your phone make a sound.
Junie, with her autism, doesn’t always understand the social cues necessary of certain situations.
“That’s a lovely invitation,” my mom says. “I’ll check our schedules.”
“I’m sure Whimsy would love to have you there,” Elias says, wiping his fingers on a paper napkin. “Regardless, I hope we can get together again before we leave. Maybe do lunch again or something?”
She smiles at the reprieve. “That would be lovely, wouldn’t it, John?”
My dad’s eyes widen like a deer caught in headlights. “Uh … yeah, of course. I’m sure we can work something out.”
Elias catches my gaze and winks. He’s not at all bothered by my father’s attempt at a cold reception.
When we’ve finished lunch and helped clean up, we say our goodbyes and head out to leave.
“I love them,” Elias declares when we’re safely ensconced inside my car and he’s sliding the seatbelt across his body. “I can’t believe you’ve been hiding them from me all this time.”
I laugh, backing out of the driveway. “I haven’t been hiding them. There’s just been no reason for you to meet my parents until now.”
“I still say you’ve been hiding them.”
It’s silent between us for about five minutes before Elias says, in a quiet, reverent voice, “I hope they never find out it’s fake or they’re going to hate me.”
“They won’t,” I promise.
But I realize as I head toward the heart of Miami it might be a promise I can’t keep.