“You shut up,” Ruby scolds, “you aimed for your mouth when you peed. You were fascinated with your winky.”
Gracie laughs so hard she chokes on her eggs, and Thatch gives her a hard pat to dislodge them without so much as glancing her way. Thoroughly entertained, I kick back in my seat as the stories start coming in from all sides. Whitney shakes her head, her first genuine smile of the morning breaking through as she eyes everyone at the table with sincere adoration. I know that look. I was a recipient of that look at one time. She beams with endearment as she surveys the table before flitting a glance my way.
“I can report he’s still obsessed with his winky,” Erin chimes in, and the table explodes with laughter. She turns to me and mouths, “I love this family.”
“I’m beginning to see why,” I shoot back.
Erin shrugs. “Only reason I married him.” Brenden feigns offense as Wyatt denies another bite.
“And Serena,” Ruby begins after a sip out of her coffee mug, “well—”
“Mom, it’ll do you good to remind you that I’ll be the one to decide what home to put you and Dad into. Test me, woman,” Serena says icily, and Ruby and Allen share a grin. I can’t help my deep chuckle, and Peyton joins me from across the table, his burst of laughter hysterical compared to mine, which only makes me laugh harder. The whole table turns to stare at us as we duel back and forth, Whitney’s eyes going wide the longer it lasts.
“Liiiiieee,” Peyton sighs with a fondness that has my chest aching, like we have some inside joke and the whole table does a collective, “ahhhh,” as Whitney’s nostrils flare with jealousy.
“These two have started a bromance,” Thatch speaks up, grinning from ear to ear.
“Lie,” Peyton repeats, opening his fists to me and offering a smashed piece of banana as Whitney snakes her hand around his middle and leans in with a fresh bribe. “Want to take a bubble bath?”
This gains his immediate loyalty. “Mep.”
Whitney smirks. My nephew.
Peyton manages a grip on a few of his scrambled eggs before smashing them into his mouth as Whitney lifts a brow to me in challenge. “Eat your eggs, baby,” Whitney coos, “then it’s tubby time. Dishes are all yours, Lie.”
I can’t help my grin. “No problem.”
There’s that fire, the girl I remember. Mouthy, opinionated, competitive, territorial, beautiful. I’d never met a girl so confident, so comfortable in her skin. Staring at her now, I may not know exactly who she is at this point, but those traits are timeless. When our gaze again catches, I sink back into the past.
LL Cool J’s “Head Sprung” blares from mammoth speakers as I haul one side of the keg toward the house. Chris glances over at me, weighing my expression. “It’s just a party, man. Seriously, you’re acting like I asked you to get your balls waxed.”
“I told you. I’m over this shit.” I have an aversion to loud noise, parties, and crowds due to an insanely sheltered childhood. When I got to college, I dove into the campus party scene with both feet to try and rid myself of it and partook too much in an attempt to feel comfortable. In the end, I decided pushing myself did more harm than good. I’m not a happy drunk, I’m a mean one, and it became evident the harder I tried. I glance around the freezing yard filled to the brim with UNC alumni and grimace. Weed clouds waft from every direction as we haul the keg toward the back door and out into the yard. There’s a pileup of people crowding a keg in use, a girl dangling from the ankles by way of two UNC ballers. She’s chugging like a pro as they chant around her in an impressive twenty count before tapping out. It’s the honey blonde hair cascading over the top of the keg along with the oversized sweatshirt tucked into her jeans that has me scrutinizing her more closely. My lips lift instantly.
Whitney.
“You know her?” Chris asks, following my line of sight.
“Yeah,” I say as she’s placed on the ground, upright. She then untucks my hoodie before swiping her foam-covered mouth with the sleeve of it—the savage.
Next to her, I recognize the puking devil as she talks to her animatedly. One of the ballers interrupts, leaning down and whispering into Whitney’s ear. Her answering smile has my own smile diminishing.
“You going to help me tap this or what?” Chris asks, stealing my attention away from her.
“It’s not that difficult,” I say as the baller again leans down to whisper in her ear, and the foreign feeling at the sight of it has my blood pumping.