Page 30 of Friends to Lovers

chapter eighteen

Three hours later, I’m sitting on the floor in Stevie’s room, a pot of pink-and-purple glitter gel open next to me.

“Just, hold still for two more seconds,” I tell her as I pat it onto her cheekbones over an already impressive streak of multicolored shimmer.

Between each round of application, Stevie has squinted in the mirror and turned back to me, asking for more, but now, she’s squirming, impatient.

I dip my finger into the pot and hold on to her chin to try to keep her still, press it onto her other cheek. “There. I think you’re done.”

She leans around me to look in the mirror, breaking into a smile when the light catches her skin in a beam that could, frankly, signal a boat at sea. “Your turn!” she says, grabbing the pot of glitter I just set down.

Sasha is lounging on the bed in her pink dress, watching us as she sips her water. Someone has to wrangle all of you tonight , she’d told me when she declined a spritz earlier. “That’s going to be a bitch to get off when you’re drunk later.”

“I’m putting it on you too,” Stevie says as she swipes a glob of gold glitter over my cheekbone.

Once Stevie is done with me, she coaxes Sasha down to the floor. Sasha puts on a face of irritation as Stevie picks out a glitter that matches her dress, but even she can’t resist smiling at my sister as she pats it on.

“Knock knock!” Our mom’s head appears through the half-open door. She pushes into the room with a tote bag straining at the seams. “Here,” she says, setting it on the bed. “A care package.”

The plan tonight is for dinner and Clyde’s and then for everyone to crash at the house Leo’s brother and bandmates have rented in town. Nonetheless every parent has stopped by our room to offer to pick us up more than once. More than twice.

“Mom!” Stevie says from the floor as I sit down on the bed and rifle through the bag. “That’s so nice !”

“That’s Stevie’s personal prosecco.” Sasha nods at the bottle next to my sister’s knee that she’s been using to top off her glass whenever it runs low.

“Be sure to get some food in her,” our mom says as she perches on the bed next to me.

“Oh, I don’t think we’ll need to worry about that.” I pull a bulk box of granola bars out of the bag, unearthing the largest bottle of ibuprofen I’ve ever laid eyes on. “What do you think we’re doing tonight?”

“Enjoying yourselves,” she says, pulling me into her and rubbing my arm. I burrow closer—maybe a result of the two spritzes I’ve had, but maybe because she’s packed us a bag full of snacks and Gatorade like we’re a crew of tipsy toddlers off to soccer practice.

While Stevie finishes up Sasha’s glitter, I take the tote bag out to Ren’s car, where we’ve been packing everyone’s bags for tonight because it has the most space.

I open one of the doors to the back seat, rummaging around for a spot, because apparently we’ve packed enough to spend an entire week in town.

My body is leaned into the car, toes just on the ground, when I feel someone behind me.

“You all good in there?”

My heart jumps into my throat at the sound of Ren’s voice. I slide out of the back seat, smooth my hands over my red dress as I straighten. We haven’t been alone since this morning.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey.” He nods toward where I’ve left the bag balanced precariously on top of Leo’s backpack. “I can put that in the back.”

I watch as he reaches inside, heaves the packed bag out, brow creasing as he glances at its contents. “I know,” I say. “It’s ridiculous.” I follow him to the back of the car, prop myself against the bumper as he sets the bag in the trunk, then joins me.

“How was kayaking?” he asks. His arms flex as he crosses them over his chest, my eyes dropping to where his palms rest against his biceps.

All I can think about is his hand in mine this morning, the gentle pressure of it, and how much I want to feel it again.

I try to ignore the way his proximity is impacting me.

“Went over some pretty gnarly rapids. Flipped twice.” I look back up at him as I say it, eyes on the spot by his mouth where that crease deepens as he laughs.

“It was very mellow. Stevie did technically flip her kayak three times, but she wasn’t actually in it yet. ”

“Stevie, the outdoorswoman?” Ren asks in jest.

I point a finger at him. “She told you too? I thought she was keeping it on the down-low until the wilderness bureau sent her the commemorative plaque.”

“Stevie Miller, Queen of the River,” Ren says.

“Stevie Miller, Queen of the Natural World,” I amend, forming a marquee with my hands.

“Ceremony forthcoming. Top of Mount Hood.”

I laugh, settling farther against the car. “How was football?”

“Football was fine,” he says, rubbing at his palm with his thumb like he’s trying to find something to do with his hands. Like I’m not the only one thinking about this morning, or last night.

“Ren!” We poke our heads around the car to see Sasha hanging half out the front door of the house. “Do you have Stevie’s bag?”

“Leo brought it out!” he calls back.

Sasha lets out a sound that’s half exasperation, half relief. “We’ll be out in two seconds!” she yells. “Stevie!” I hear her shout as she recedes back into the house. “Your husband took it out there!”

“Her husband,” Ren says, voice low. “First time I’ve heard someone call Leo that.”

“Hey,” I say, elbowing him. “If you let your friend screw my little sister over…”

Ren’s eyebrow arches. “Are we about to have the talk?” he asks, angling toward me.

I laugh. “I wouldn’t know how to give the talk.”

“Here, practice on me,” Ren says. “If I let Leo screw Stevie over, you’ll what?”

“I’ll—” My eyes catch on his as he comes to stand in front of me, my pulse fluttering. “I’ll be so mad.”

Ren looks skeptical. “That’s all you’ve got?”

“I don’t know.” I reach up, pull at the ends of my hair. Ren tracks the movement. “This hypothetical is ridiculous. Leo hurting Stevie? You being fine with it?”

“Humor me,” Ren says.

My teeth work at my lip as I think. “I know,” I say. “You let your friend screw over my little sister and I’ll send everyone the video of you singing ‘It’s All Coming Back to Me Now.’”

Ren’s eyes go wide, one corner of his mouth twitching into a disbelieving smile. “You told me you deleted that,” he says.

I press my lips together, shake my head. It still exists on my computer, in a folder where I dumped all my pictures and videos even tangentially related to Ren when I couldn’t look at them anymore. It freed up a depressing amount of space on my phone.

The video in question is one from my last summer in Port land, when some perfect cocktail of tequila, summer heat, and enough laughter to make us slaphappy had Ren finally relenting when I dragged him into a karaoke bar.

Ren will dance with me at weddings. He can play the guitar so well.

He can pick out a great musician in seconds. He can not carry a tune.

“Had to keep something in case a situation like this ever arose,” I say.

I’m fighting a smile, even if the video reminds me of saying goodbye to him for the first time all those years ago, of how much time I’ve spent missing him since.

Being this close to Ren is doing a lot to temporarily erase the most fraught parts of our history from my mind.

“Unbelievable,” Ren says, edging closer to me. His hand just grazes mine where it rests against the trunk. “And here I deleted all evidence of the Great Senior Year Bleach Debacle.”

“Hey.” I move to whack his shoulder but he stops me, catches my hand in his. “Half of my hair was blond for two hours , and you are the only one who saw it.”

I feel myself tilting toward him as he grins, my body drawn toward his like there are magnets at our centers.

“And you pulled it off so well,” he says, all the sarcasm lost on me when the low gravel in his voice hits my ears.

The front door slams open again.

“Clyde’s! Clyde’s! Clyde’s!” Stevie chants as she marches down the steps. Leo joins in behind her, Thad and Sasha trailing him.

We drop our things at the house—a huge, sprawling place on the bay—and convene in the open-concept living room and kitchen, where I slip Stevie’s bride sash over her head, hand Leo’s groom sash to his brother, Oliver.

I also ordered temporary tattoos of each of their faces and of their initials in the middle of a heart.

Putting them on turns out to be a hilarious affair.

Because they could only be purchased in quantities of fifty, we have a huge number, and everyone gets creative: Dev, the drummer, spirals a line of Leo’s face down his arm; Thad puts tattoos of Stevie’s face on both sides of his neck.

I hover between the kitchen and living room, casting around for Sasha or Stevie to help me put one of Leo’s face on my shoulder. But Stevie is busy applying tattoos to Leo in the kitchen and Sasha is next to Thad on the couch, lining up one of each on her forearm.

“Here,” Ren says, walking over to me from where he’s been sorting through the box of tattoos on the coffee table. He motions for me to turn around.

I do as instructed. He slowly brushes my hair to the side like it’s muscle memory, even though it’s not long enough anymore to get in the way, and sets the tattoo on my shoulder, pressing a cool towel carefully against my skin.

After a minute, he removes the towel and peels the paper back, blows gently to make sure it’s dry, sending goose bumps radiating out from the spot.

He takes a step back. “There,” he says, finally lifting his eyes to mine.