The Hard Count(36)

My brow pinches, and I let out a short breath through my nose, but nod in agreement.

“Okay,” I say, turning my full attention to the door and leaving.

My brother and Travis are gone, probably already on their way to Charlie’s. The parking lot gets full fast, with families and players crowding in for the free ice cream the owners give out after wins. We always pack the lot until midnight, until the neon lights are shut off, and sometimes well past then.

And tonight is the first one ever that Nico Medina will be there for any of it.



I snag the last spot in the lot. It’s near the alley, and it isn’t really a parking spot, but I know nobody is picking up the trash this late on a Friday night. I have to slide against the metal garbage bin to get out because I have to park so close. I’m sure I’ve smudged some dirt on my white shirt, but I brush the front and worry less about the back as I get closer to the party.

A few girls I recognize say hi, but I don’t stop until I get to my favorite picnic table closest to the building. Izzy is already sitting on the table, the straw from her chocolate shake lodged between her teeth as she tugs it free from her cup with her mouth then pokes it back in for a new position.

“Hands free, huh?” I tease as I sit next to her.

“My hands get cold, so I leave all the work up to my mouth,” she says, just loud enough that Travis hears and stops at our table to comment.

“I can give your pretty mouth a work out, Izz. Whataya say?” Travis reaches into his pants as if he’s really going to do anything. Izzy waits him out, not even blushing with embarrassment, and eventually he has to push his hands in his pockets and laugh to avoid feeling foolish.

“My mouth will never touch any part of any of you, Travis Wickersham,” my friend says, her lips wrapping over her straw then slowly stretching into a closed-mouth grin. She sucks in a taste of chocolate while Travis looks on, and he holds his hand over his chest.

“You break my heart, Izzy. But I’ll get over it,” he laughs.

“She just won’t give in because my sister is in love with you,” my brother says, his voice behind me and instantly sending my head three years into the past and my temper a dozen levels hotter.

“Noah!” I shout, twisting in my seat to look him in the eyes, only to notice Nico is just over his shoulder, hearing everything.

“Awe, there’s enough of me to go around, Reagan, but I don’t think your brother will approve,” Travis chuckles.

My eyes flare and dart from person to person, in quick panic. All I want is for this to stop, for my brother and Travis to move on, for the subject to change. This friendly banter—or not-so-friendly at the moment—is typical Prescott-twin activity. My brother and I have been pushing each other’s buttons since the days of long car rides to our grandparents’ lake house in the summer. We’ve always been competitive—even though our skills don’t match. I’m the one who gets straight As and takes first prize at the science fair, and Noah hits the ball over the fence in Little League. We fight over shelf space, over whose trophy, medal, certificate—whatever symbol of our achievement—gets to take up more real estate and is placed in the very center of the mantle.

But there’s something in my brother’s tone tonight—an edge that’s just a little different. Something…bitter. When I step in closer, mostly to keep my brother’s voice down, I realize he’s also working on a pretty nice buzz, the smell of whiskey from our dad’s favorite stash, strong. I’ve gotten used to this smell over the last year, too. It’s on him when he crawls into the house from parties—it was on him the night he crashed the car, too.

“You’re on pain meds, Noah. Don’t be an idiot; what are you thinking,” I say, doing my best to keep my voice a whisper, but gritting the words through my teeth so he can see how serious I am—how disappointed I am.

I can almost see it coming before I’m hit with it, but I’m not fast enough. My brother’s hand grabs my shoulder, and he pushes me out of his face.

“You’re not my f*cking babysitter, Reagan! You have such an enormous stick up your ass. Always Miss Perfect. Oh, look at me, Daddy. I’m making a movie. Can I make a movie about you? Guess what, Reagan? Nobody gives a shit about your dumb-ass documentary—not even Dad! He just wants you to be busy, and he’s always complaining about how you get in the way out on the field. The coaches f*cking hate that you’re in the press box. What are you going to do when you go to college and realize that the only people who think you’re talented at all are f*cking related to you?”

My fingers tingling, my face red, I glance around to see dozens of eyes on me—including Nico’s. I clench my jaw to keep my emotions as even as I can, and I stand, but the little girl who doesn’t want to let her brother get away with it gets the best of me, and I let my shoulder fall just enough into my brother as I pass that I nudge his arm from his crutch, causing him to hop.

“Asshole,” I say under my breath.

“Bitch,” he says back without pause. His word comes out crisp and loud, and it stabs like a knife. I stop in my tracks instantly, my hand swelling with blood. I’ve never wanted to hit him. I’ve never hated him so much.

My eyes tear up, and I spin to let my hand fly at his face, but before I can, Nico’s stepped up to him, their faces only inches apart.