Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 131821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
“The fact that you can still get your mouth open that wide with all that food in it means you know how to, too,” Brady teases, laughing and dodging her backhand when she stretches her long-ass arm across the coffee table.
“Speaking of Halloween.” Ari smiles. “How cute is Deaton’s little costume!”
My brows snap together, and I look to my sister, but she’s looking at Cameron.
“I know! I told her she should add a little war paint under his eyes, but she said that’s just a football and baseball thing.” She shrugs. “Still be cute.”
“Little dude’s gonna be a buff little badass when he gets bigger.” Brady stuffs his face, eyes on the TV.
My appetite is gone in a single instant.
So they’ve all seen his costume. His first Halloween costume.
They’ve seen it, and I don’t even know what it is.
A bitterness coats my tongue, and I lift my water bottle to my lips, trying and failing to wash the taste away.
My sister nudges my ribs, and my head snaps her way, but it’s Paige who discreetly opens her phone, setting it on the carpet beside my feet.
My eyes fall to the screen, and there he is, smiling all big and bright, and goddamn if the murkiness in my mind doesn’t grow a little lighter at the sight.
He’s wearing what looks like overalls but a spandex version, his name printed across the chest in the same font as our university hoodies.
He’s wearing a singlet.
He’s a little wrestler, and when I look to the second photo, zoomed in to only show his shoulders, printed proudly across the back is Vermont.
Because that’s his last name.
He’s not mine, and as much as it pains me to think it, I don’t think she’ll ever allow him to be.
Not that I’d ever want to take big D’s place. I wouldn’t. I don’t.
But little man has four sides, right?
Why can’t I have one?
Why can’t I have her?
I push to my feet, excusing myself for a minute, and step into the hall.
The door opens a few moments later, and surprising me for a second time, it’s Paige who joins me.
She smiles softly, propping her shoulder against the wall, her body facing mine. “She didn’t send them the picture.”
I look at her from the corner of my eye, and she shrugs.
“I made the costume. Dropped it off when I went to check on the progress of my studio last weekend. She only just tried it on him today and…well.” She shakes her phone in the air.
“You made it?” I ask, surprised and trying not to read too much into her explanation.
So Payton didn’t send it to everyone but me. That’s good.
But why didn’t she send it to me? She must know I’d want to see. We talked about it once…when we were still talking.
“I did. I make the costumes for my dance students all the time. It’s cheaper that way, and the kids in my classes can’t afford to be there, let alone to pay for something they’ll never wear again.” She smiles. “Although this was my first time making anything wrestling related, and to be honest, I don’t know much about it…but I was a little surprised to learn wrestlers have numbers.”
I chuckle despite myself, shaking my head. “You’re right, you don’t know much. Wrestlers don’t have numbers because while they are part of a team or club, it’s a solo sport. No need for numbers when it’s just you and the other guy on the mat.”
Paige makes a face of confusion, but the pinch of her eyes tells me she’s not all that confused, and the simple “huh” that leaves her is even less convincing.
I raise a brow, and she giggles, but the playfully patronizing way she pats my chest on her way back inside tells me it’s at my expense.
A moment later, my phone pings, and I pull it up. The number isn’t one I have saved, but I know it’s Paige when I open it, her first text telling me so.
Unknown: stole your number from the group thread.
Before I can respond, a second message comes though, this one the image she showed me inside of Deaton smiling wide at the camera, his big blue eyes as bright and glacier-like as his mama’s.
“Hey, little man,” I murmur, gliding my thumb over it a moment…but then my eyes travel lower, and I see something I missed before.
My spine shoots straight, and I push off the wall, dragging the screen closer but zooming out as much as the image allows.
How did I miss it?
Right there on his chest is a number, stitched in big block letters to match his name.
The number four stares back at me, and all the air leaves my lungs, because holy. Shit.
That can’t be a coincidence.
It’s not random.
The number bolded on his chest is the same one I’ll be wearing on mine tomorrow…when he’ll wear it on his.