“Who are you?” the agent asks.
“John Cocktosen,” Titus says without missing a beat.
Idiot. Does he think a woman in her 50s has never seen the movieFletch?
“Well, Mr. Cocktosen, you can put your hands down; you are not under arrest.”
Oh yeah, she knows that’s the fakest of fake names. I love him, but he and my brother are idiots in their own unique ways.
Titus nods. “Great. So, can I load this beast into my truck so we can get these poor kids out of here? I think they’ve suffered enough. Let them have their mom’s trunk. It’s such a small ask.”
Agent Stephens nods toward the trunk. “Just as soon as I see what’s in it.”
Oh shit. The jig is truly up now.
TWO
Titus
No one can tell,but I’m so scared that my liver has sucked my balls up into my body cavity.
I do not know what’s in this trunk, but if Cassandra says it’s important, then by the power of Greyskull, I’m going to help her hold on to it. Her life is falling apart around her shoulders and that of my best friend, Herc. I hate to see them like this.
Cass’s kind green eyes look so sad, and there’s nothing I can do but this.
Here goes nothing.
I slowly lift the lid, the ancient wood creaking.
All four of us in this shed surround the opening and look down to see what this treasure of family history is. And it’s tennis balls.
Tennis. Balls.
Keeping one hand on the lid, I scratch my head with the other.
“Well, there you go. Ye olde tennis balls.”
The agent sniffs. “There must be over five hundred in here.”
Herc lifts one massive shoulder and nods. “Momma kept every tennis ball from every match we ever played since we were six. Can you believe it?”
Cass snaps her gaze to Herc, then to me. I ever so slightly widen my eyes, begging her to play along. Understanding crosses her face, and then she nods. With a crack in her sad voice, she echoes what Herc just said.
“Oh my god, just seeing all these again is tearing me apart. We have to keep them.”
This girl—this woman—is astounding. I’ve always known she was strong. Many people don’t know this, but I’ve witnessed it first-hand.
In high school, people would sometimes pick on Cass. They called her a “try-hard” for giving a hundred percent to whatever she was involved in, which was everything. They called her a baby because she cries easily. Duckling videos, newborn babies, unhoused people, commercials for animal welfare—here come the waterworks. That’s our Squeaks. That changed when the cyberbullying started. On Facebook, Instagram, and every other social media, other kids would destroy her in comments. People commented on her thick thighs in those short skirts. They’d remind her to “be sure to stay on the bottom of the pyramid, so none of the other cheerleaders got crushed.” The worst were the dudes who commented about her being a tease.
A “dick tease,” they would say. She went on lots of dates but never committed. High school boys made up their own sordid narratives to explain that.
The overprotective part of me that loved her like a sister was relieved to know she was not sexually active. For her safety, of course. But I hate that phrase. I know my Squeaks, and she doesn’t tease. She’s pure, wholesome, and utterly oblivious to how men are. She’s never lied or stolen anything. She’s never so much as shoplifted a pack of gum. For fuck’s sake, the girl can’t even swear correctly. So I know there was no way she was ever leading those little shits on. The girl feels everything with her whole heart and wears that heart on her sleeve. She’ll make it known if she has romantic feelings for a guy. I’m sure of it. Nobody’s entitled to her body, not even on a date.
I hope she never changes. I admire her more than anyone.
I say that, but then watching her lie to a federal agent? Oh my god. I have to marry Cass because she went from wholesome and perfect to perfectly awesome.
Callously, the agent picks one up and, with a frown, turns it over in her hand. “But they aren’t even marked. How do you know which match they were each from?”