Bette makes her way from the next room. “Smart ass.”
I pour myself a glass of ice water.
“Thought you were going to a party. Why are you home so early?” she asks.
“Early? It’s almost eleven.” I take a quick drink.
My mind replays the kiss—again, complete with the bus brakes screeching behind us. I took them as a warning sign to get the hell out of there, to pump the brakes before I let myself get carried away.
“I’d ask if you met any cute guys, but obviously you wouldn’t be here if you did,” Aunt Bette says, one hand on her robe-covered hip. Her hair is in curlers and her red-framed glasses almost hide the ornery grin in her eyes.
“Right. Not a one,” I say. I take another sip of ice water but I still feel him, still taste him.
She squints, coming closer as she studies me. “Wait a minute. I know that look. You’re lying.”
“No idea what you’re talking about …”
“Your cheeks are all flushed and you’re all fidgety,” she says, examining me from head to toe. “What are you not telling me? Did something happen at that party? You met someone, didn’t you?”
I can’t lie to Bette. She’s far too seasoned, far too versed in dealing with young women to know when someone’s not giving her the entire scoop, so I exhale. “I didn’t meet someone. I ran into someone.”
She lifts a skinny brow. “Someone who’s evidently made you all hot and bothered.”
Bette points to the kitchen table before taking a seat. I take the one beside her, knowing there’s no getting out of this.
“What’s his name?” she asks.
“Talon.”
“Is he handsome?”
I furrow my brow. “Yeah, but—”
“Does he have nice breath?” she asks.
I chuckle. “Yes.”
“Is he nice?”
“Only when he wants to be …” I roll my eyes.
“Is he nice to you?”
I bite my lip. “Yeah.”
“Does he want to date you?” she asks.
“More than anything in the world.”
Aunt Bette slaps her wrinkled, elfin hand on the table, shocking the life into me for a moment. “Then what on God’s green earth are you doing at home? With me? Right now? You should be out with him! Having the time of your life!”
She yanks her glasses off her face, her hands flailing as she talks. I’ve never seen her this worked up about anything, ever.
“What’s this about, Aunt Bette?”
“Would it kill you to live a little, Irie? My God. It’s not like I’m going to run back and tell your aunt and uncle you went out and had yourself some fun.” She buries her face in her hands.
I don’t bother telling her that I’m pretty sure they don’t give a rat’s ass what I’m up to these days anyway. When Bette made her offer, they couldn’t ship me out here fast enough. After high school, I was no longer their problem.
“You’re almost twenty-three years old,” Bette says, pointing her glasses at me. “You have no husband. No kids. No bills. You’re never going to be as beautiful as you are right now, and I don’t say that to be harsh. It’s common knowledge. Once you hit thirty, your metabolism turns to shit and gravity makes everything just … hang.”
With that, I rise from the table, laughing through my nose. “All right. I’m going to go to bed now. Thanks for the pep talk, Aunt Bette.”
“I’m serious, Irie.” She turns in her chair as I head for the hall. “Live it up while you can. You won’t regret it. And if you do, well, regrets always make for good stories at parties.”
“Goodnight,” I call out.
I can’t deny Aunt Bette’s valid argument, but I also can’t throw four years out the window all because the man can kiss just as well as he can throw a football—maybe even better.
I’m stronger than that.
Even if I’m currently having a moment of weakness.
Chapter 10
Talon
“Talon, good. You’re here.” Coach Jackson waves me into his office, where a silver-haired man with bronze skin sips coffee as he scans the wall full of plaques and trophies Monday morning. He called me while I was on my way to Anthro and told me to get here immediately, so this better be good. “Talon, this is Jerry Quick. Scout for the Richmond Hawks.”
The man turns from Jackson’s Wall of Fame and extends his right hand toward mine. “Talon, wow. What a pleasure to finally meet you in person. Been watching you play for a long time.”
I meet his grip with mine. He squeezes hard. I squeeze harder.
“Why don’t we have a seat?” Coach points to the sofa and chair set up in the corner.
A moment later, we’re all situated. Jerry won’t stop blinding me with his 3D smile and Coach’s knee won’t stop bouncing.
“All right, I’m going to cut to the chase here,” Jerry says, producing a manila folder and splaying it open on the table between us. “We’d like to sign you.”