Page 16

Evie

Wild's team lost the charity game, not that anyone cared.

After the upheaval and shock my life has suffered recently, I want only one thing: normalcy. The director has cleared my return to work. Thank goodness. I miss interacting with three and four-year-olds.

The most challenging part of my job is getting the kids to do the same thing simultaneously. Even helping them to the restroom can be a challenge. But I enjoy it. There's a sense of fulfillment in shaping the minds of little ones.

And being an engaged woman in this field gives an extra layer of respectability. I refuse to think about it.

What did Kristyn say again when we met in the restroom after the Charity game?

"Focus on the rewards."

One would think I'm getting a trophy or something.

"We are fake. You know what that means, right?"

"Like what?" I had prodded.

I've forgotten how shameless my best friend can get. If only I remembered, I would have avoided her like Mrs. Langford and her club members terrorizing a former member of their clique.

"Like it's real. And I mean 'make your toes curl' level of real," Kristyn had said.

Kristyn can afford to be careless with her heart. I wouldn't dare. “Stop it. I mean it. If you’re going to be this way, maybe we should give each other space.”

That was our last exchange. I haven't heard from Kristyn since. It's not the first time we'll have those 'I hate you and I'm not talking to you for now' fights.

Sarah sent a congratulatory text. Yay! Since she doesn't sneeze without her mother's permission, Mrs. Langford already knows. But Wild and I still have to put on a show at the luncheon.

Today, my assistant is on the end-of-day routine shift, which is a nicer way of saying she gets to clean and clean until every surface and toy shines. It means an extra achy body for her, but I've led a dance party with extra movement songs not even Beyonce in her prime can pull off.

By four, I'm dead on my feet but weirdly energized, like I'm high on caffeine. It was a good day. I managed to fit in an IEP meeting--short for Individualized Education Plan-- with a parent. I'm usually nervous about such meetings because some parents can get their claws out where their children are concerned. They forget their kid is not the only student in the classroom. But Amy's mom came prepared, asked great questions, and was understanding.

The meeting was as smooth as a well-paced drama.

There are just ten kids left, including my assistant. After the dreaded end-of-day routine, I say my goodbyes. It's a heavy production of warm hugs and belly rubs and just what I need to erase the tornado the next few months will bring.

I run into the new guy, the only male at our center, Lance.

"Hey, Lance," I greet as I step out.

He looks harried with his formerly slick hair all over his face. "Hi."

"Bad day?"

His jaw juts out, and his heavily freckled face is tight with determination. "Just first-day jitters. I will get used to it."

I have a good feeling about him.

The first person I see when I step out is Wild. He's far away, but I know him. Then, out of self-preservation, I make a beeline for a toy forgotten on the playground.

Wild's still at the parking lot when I return. I clock his height, sweatpants, and broad shoulders in a blurry sweep. Then, I focus on his worn-out features.

The charity game where we had our 'coming out' as a couple was just two days ago. I haven't seen him since. Not even a text.

He turns, and I see the bag from In-N-Out Burger hanging from his fingers. My pulse starts racing because he brought me food. And he came to pick me up. And it's not all fake. It's Wild and me. Mostly Wild. I've been so invested in stacking blocks on the boundary between us I've forgotten the little things.

Wild hasn't forgotten.

My stomach grumbles at the smell, and Wild laughs. "You didn't eat?"

"I didn't eat."

We sit in the car, and he looks around while I devour the burger. I wonder what he's thinking. My preschool is colorful, with enough qualified teachers and a big playground. A parent arrives to pick up her kid while another is leaving. The kids laugh and run around their parents as they stop to say hi to each other.

I sigh.

Wild will make a great father. The thought pops into my mind from nowhere. I do the ‘ burn and bury ’ thing in record time. I will make a great serial killer.

"You shouldn't skip meals," Wild says, watching the parents.

"Why does that sound like something from a K-drama?"

He grins. "Because it is."

A burger has never tasted so good, probably because I haven't eaten all day.

Wild is still watching the parents with their excited children. I won't make a dad joke. I won't make a dad joke. Finally, he drags his eyes away from the display. Weariness lines every inch of his face.

I have a general idea of what it takes to win a championship from observing Wild during his rookie year. I was just eleven, but I remember him not being around. He stopped hanging out with Charlie, and I rarely saw him.

Plus, he is thirty-four—a doddering older man by sports standards.

"You shouldn't have come."

"I promised you fun," he says with a determined set to his chin. "But today we're going to do 'laid back."

"We don't have to do anything."

"By the way, Mom says you're avoiding her calls."

I slump in my seat with a groan. "What do I tell her?"

He cuts me a warning glance. "We're not telling her the truth. She will hate this."

"You mean one of the sweetest women I know, who happens to be your mother, will hate us living a lie? I had no idea."

One hand goes to the back of the passenger headrest as he looks to reverse, only he gets my hair instead. Thank God I have low-maintenance hair. I lean forward to help him untangle his hand from my hair, but he's not moving. Snippy because I have to lie to Carla, I turn my head and find him staring.

At my hair.

"Unless there are weeds growing out of there, I can't imagine what the holdup is."

He makes a face. "Weeds in your hair. Disgusting visuals."

"Says Brandon Sanderson's number one fan."

"Your hair is so soft." He fingers a strand and brings his face closer to smell me.

My whole body locks. "What are you even doing?"

"What shampoo do you use again?"

"Let's talk about telling Carla the truth."

"No."

"I don't want to lie to her."

"We ’ re not telling her," he says in his 'don't even argue' voice. My eyes narrow and must be shooting sparks because he backs down. "I don't want to tell her the truth. She's going to be disappointed. I don't want her disappointed."

Me neither.

Somehow, I fall asleep five minutes into the drive home. I blame the burger. I stretch and crack a yawn. My fists hit the roof of the car and the window. I slump back down, realizing the car isn't moving. One look around confirms my suspicion; we are home.

He's letting me sleep.

I breathe in deep and hold it. It's the little things like these that wreak havoc on my defenses. "You should go home," I say.

"Laid back," is his response.

We end up side by side on the couch, a bowl of the most sinfully buttery popcorn between us. Since my family K-dramas don’t mix well with epic fantasy, we had a little fight. Of course, I won. My house, my living room. And Wild still won't stop about my television.

"It belongs in the 17th century," he insists.

"You know you can still go home, right?"

"Or we can play Scrabble."

"You're going to lose, and you're going to cry about it."

To his credit, he let me have my moment.

I'm slumped on my comfiest couch, my favorite drama playing out on screen, and a quiet Wilder. Heaven. It's fun, but I won't give him the satisfaction of hearing it.

Mother and daughter embrace on screen, and I feel the tears threatening.

Our fingers tangle inside the slippery popcorn. It's not handholding. The television has my full attention. Wild catches my fingers and starts playing with my ring.

I tug at my hand. Wild holds fast. I shoot him a glare. "I want my hand back."

He nods at the television. "After this episode. Scrabble."

I groan. "You know how you feel when you destroy a team by thirty points?"

"Very good." When the episode ends, he sets up the Scrabble board. "Especially if we have to sit out the last quarter, and the young guys get to play with them like food."

I roll my eyes. "Compare it with playing your competitor or rival."

And he hangs his head in defeat. I notice his shoulders shaking, and I can only marvel at Wild's ability to laugh at himself.

The laugh is slipping out under his scowl like a poorly wrapped gift. “So, you're saying I'm so bad you'll beat me by thirty basketball points?"

I shrug. We both know I'm right.

"And I'm not good enough to be your competitor?" A muscle ticks along his jaw as he grits his teeth in determination. "I'm going to make you take that back."

"That sounds ominous," I reply, treating his threat with all the seriousness it deserves. None.

Sure enough, five minutes in, it's not a contest. "We could have just watched my drama. Or I can even manage your Lord of the Rings."

"Manage." The face he makes; you would think I dealt him a personal insult. He points a finger in my face. "Don't say what you'll regret."

"Fine." There are lines I shouldn't cross no matter how humble and kind and quick to laugh Wild is. Disrespecting Lord of the Rings is one such line.

The first loss, and Wild is horrified. And determined to learn from his mistakes.

The second time, he's appalled.

Then come the excuses. "It's because of the popcorn."

"How? Did it steal your brain? Last I checked, you have only Sanderson and basketball up there."

Another warning finger coated in butter appears in front of my nose. Another empty threat. Wild's right. Sometimes, beating someone so thoroughly they respect your prowess is fun. I'm enjoying myself.

His next loss, and Wild pulls out the victim card. "It's because you have two degrees. That's an unfair advantage."

"What about you and the boys winning the pickup games because you're taller and stronger?"

"Then you can just vote for us to stop playing boys versus girls and having Sisi as your ref."

He says the last part with such disgust I almost burst something laughing. The laugh builds up from the pit of my stomach and explodes, catching me off guard. To my embarrassment, popcorn and spittle go flying everywhere. Horrified, I'm apologizing and trying to force down the laughter, but it's too strong.

Chuckling, Wild shakes his head, muttering under his breath.

My lungs burn as I try to control myself. "What?" I gasp.

He looks away, lashes low on his cheek, pink tinging his cheekbones. Wild and flustered don't belong in the same sentence, but here it is playing out before my disbelieving eyes.

"Wild?"

"Nothing. It's nothing."

"You know," I start with admirable composure. But underneath, I'm unraveling. "Losses are part of life. It's not the end of the world.”

"I'm leaving."

Wild runs from my house like the hounds of hell are on his heels. I'm barely hanging on to my door, shaking from laughter and trolling him for running away. The way he drives away reminds me of those bank heist films filled with squealing tires and dust. Hilarious.

And fun. Very fun.