Britta’s he’s not wrong expression made me laugh, and she ruffled the boy’s hair. “Wes has to go soon, so he won’t have time to play with you.”
“Oh no!” Britta’s mom interjected. “Don’t go yet. Stay for lunch at least. You drove all this way. You have to at least let us feed you.” Britta’s mom didn’t really ask me to stay so much as decree it.
“Mom,” Britta started, holding up a hand. “Wes has to—”
“A plate of food. It’s the least we can do to thank you for bringing our girl to us.” Danielle shushed her daughter and patted my arm. “We insist.”
Britta mouthed “Sorry,” but I shrugged and nodded.
Jon pulled on my arm again. “So, can you teach me?”
“Sure, buddy. Can I help your aunt get settled first?”
“Okay!” Jon yelled the response and then sprinted toward the other kids playing tag.
“Winning points already,” Britta said under her breath as I stood. “I guess you’re going to get to meet everyone.”
I leaned in so my lips almost brushed her ear, her mom momentarily distracted by one of the other kids. “I don’t think I’d want to cross your mom.”
Britta giggled, and I wanted to slip my arm around her and pull her closer against me.
Her mom spoke over the low roar of the kids. “Drop off your stuff in the blue room. That’s where I was going to put you and Del.” The blue room implied they had so many rooms that a coding system was needed. I’d shared a room with Libby until I was sixteen and then moved to our couch when we had a couch. I’d caught something else—she’d only said one room.
“Were you planning that Del and I would share a bed?”
“Oh, come on, now,” her mom said with a playful shove to Britta’s shoulder. “I’m not that old-fashioned. I don’t care if you share a bed with your boyfriend.”
“Mom! I told you we’re just friends.”
Her mom looked apologetic and bit her lower lip, like Britta did when she was embarrassed. She also eyed me, clearly trying to figure out my deal. I would have liked to know, too. “I thought that was code, like that Netflix and chill thing. You kids never tell me what you really mean.”
I could have kissed her mom for revealing Del was just a friend.
“Britta’s friend! Hurry so we can play!”
Britta’s mother turned to scold Jon for being rude, and Britta tilted up her head. “It looks like you’re a wanted man.”
Her mouth was tipped up in a grin, brown eyes dancing in a way that made me want to kiss her, a craving I was getting more and more used to and finding harder and harder to resist. “I guess so,” I said as her mom turned back to us.
“Well, you better go put your stuff down before Jon tackles you and drags you out himself.” She shooed us toward the stairs but called over her shoulder. “And stop side-eyeing me, Britta Christine. You friend isn’t here anyway, so the bed doesn’t matter.”
A chorus of yelling bled through the nearby window from the group outside. “Spades,” Britta said. “We’re a little competitive.”
“That’s kind of cool.” All around me, her family was loud and laughing. Britta’s mom had returned to the porch with another older woman, both holding iced tea glasses. “Everyone seems so . . . relaxed.”
“We’re close. Most of my mom’s family lives nearby, but my dad’s family usually only visits once or twice a year.”
My attention was torn as we made our way up the brightly lit staircase to a long hallway dotted with family photos. I tried to take them in and was also admiring Britta’s ass as she climbed in front of me.
“Ugh, I hate that she has the old photos up,” Britta said, motioning to portraits filled with big curls and the same smile. Britta as a smiling toddler in a bikini, sticking her belly out. Britta wearing braces and sporting a crooked smile, maybe from middle school. Britta in a bright orange dress standing next to a bride. She pointed to that one. “My sister’s wedding. No one who really loves her sister picks dresses that color.”
“I don’t know; it kind of suits you.” I knew nothing about fashion but knew that dress was ugly and fit Britta’s body poorly, but I hadn’t noticed that initially. I’d been drawn to her smile. “And it’s nice that your mom hangs on to so many memories.” Several years earlier, in the back of a drawer, I’d found a few Polaroids of Libby and me. I’d relocated them to my own nightstand. After so many months of silence, Libby had finally responded a few weeks earlier—just with an emoji and “I’m fine,” but it was something.