“No, like you’re a jigsaw puzzle and I have all the outside pieces but I haven’t worked out how all the inside ones fit together yet.”
“I made something for you.” I say, changing the subject quickly. “It’s not very good. I was distracted watching you miss the goal every time.”
Her shoulders shake as she laughs. “I’m so bad. I’m literally a goalie’s dream.”
“You are.” She finally looks up as I put the paper dove down in front of her. “Speaking as a goalie, that is.”
She picks the dove up, holding it in her hand like it’s the most precious thing in the world even though it’s terrible. “I love it. Thank you, Russ.”
The rules of paint dodgeball are the same as regular dodgeball. The difference is your ball is actually a sponge, which you dip into one of the many paint mixtures dotted around the grass before launching at your opponents. Each round has a color to make it clear who’s in and who’s out.
Given the fact my opponents are mainly children, coupled with my long history of athletics, it didn’t occur to me to be worried about getting covered in paint—but as the sponge hits me square in the chest, green paint spraying out from the impact, I realize my certainty was misjudged.
Aurora’s expression is victorious as she shakes the excess green paint from her hand. The girl has an arm on her, which is fucking hot. Purple speckles decorate her neck and blue smears her cheek and legs. I’m not ready to explore how her ability to beat me turns me on.
“I thought you were good at blocking stuff,” she yells from the other side of the centerline.
“I told you I have no talent!”
“I can think of a few things you’re very talented at.”
I’ll take her thinking I’m good in bed over being good at paintball any day of the week.
Leaving the court, since she knocked me out, I take a seat next to Maya, who’s also covered in various paints. “When did eight-year-olds get so competitive?”
We watch everyone carry on the game. My eyes close for a second as I turn toward the sun, loving the heat on my face. That’s when something wet hits my leg. Snapping my eyes open, I immediately spot Rory smiling.
Maya laughs, handing me a towel. “She’s gonna give you two away.”
My stomach sinks. “We’re no . . . There’s nothing to give away.”
“Sure, mate. Sure.”
The communal bathroom is big enough for both me and Aurora, several more of us in fact, and yet we’re standing so close to each other I can feel the heat radiating from her body.
“It’s no use,” she groans wiping the wet cloth across her neck over and over. “I’m destined to look like a colorful dalmatian forever.”
“Come here.” Lifting at her waist, I sit her on the counter and take the cloth from her hand. Her knees nudge open, letting me step between them as I gently tilt her face upward, giving me access to the parts of her painted different colors. “They really got you good.”
As soon as the kids realized how good Aurora was, she became their biggest target. She hums as I slowly clean along her jawline and when I move down her neck, she shivers. Her cheeks flush pink but we both ignore it and whatever it might mean. “How are you today?” she asks, ending the silence between us.
“You don’t like silence, huh?”
“You don’t like answering questions, huh?”
“Okay, you got me there. Today was, uh, honestly easier than I was expecting. Being distracted helps I think. What about you?”
“Same. I think all I’ve ever really wanted was for people to want to spend time with me. Because my dad just doesn’t, no matter which way people sugarcoat it, and my mom wants to spend time with me but—” I move her face slowly, tilting it to get the other side of it. “—I can’t describe it without sounding horrible. Like, I don’t know. She suffocates me sometimes and it’s too much. But the kids want me around because they think I’m nice and as pathetic as that sounds, it means a lot to me.”
“It’s not pathetic.”
“And they can’t leave,” she forces a laugh, “so that’s good.”
“You deserve people in your life who make you feel good, Aurora.”
“You make me feel good.”
She turns back to face me, her pretty green eyes staring up at me through her long eyelashes. I want to rub my thumb along her bottom lip, kiss her, see if she tastes as good as I remember. She hesitates but I recognize the look on her face. The one she makes when she wants to ask me something, but doesn’t know how to.