Just like that, her attention is tuned back in with the radio, and she’s jamming to the Celine Dion classic “It’s All Coming Back to Me Now.”
“All the team stood to dance and I just knew my time had died and gone forever,” she croons.
I’m pretty sure the actual lyric has something to do with tears turning to ash, but I’m going to let her have this one because she’s feeling herself at the moment.
She starts banging out the rhythm on the dashboard with one hand and singing into a pretend microphone with the other as the verse builds to the chorus.
We end up serenading each other with the refrain. She reaches out and strokes my cheek dramatically—literally touching me like this.
I’m playing the part of a long-lost lover, and it’s not that hard, to be honest. Especially when she looks at me with desperate eyes.
Pretenddesperate eyes.
We’re pretending.
When I don’t think I can handle the feel of her hand on my skin any longer, she rips her fingers away and belts out the bridge.
I bust a gut when she sings, “It was more than all your lousy loooooove.”
“Celine would not be singing so passionately if she was recalling a lousy lover,” I remark during the brief instrumental interlude before the fade-out.
“Maybe he could have taken a lesson from the turtles.”
We spitball back and forth, and by the time I pull into the terminal pick-up line, Poppy has tears streaming down her cheeks from laughing so hard, and my side aches because I’ve been right there with her. I haven’t worked those muscles in years.
“Big. You’re the best. I needed that.” She leans over and kisses me on the cheek.
Like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
Like she’s a friend or a sister, and we’re comfortable with each other like that.
Like she has no idea that her lips against my skin acted like a vacuum and sucked all the air from my lungs.
“There he is!” She unbuckles and opens the door. “Holland!” She waves.
In that instant, reality crashes into me with all the welcome of a lousy lover.
I glance away. I know I said I was okay with my heart being collateral damage, but a man doesn’t need to see his brother get a welcome-home kiss from the girl he’s majorly crushing on.
I give myself a mental shake and open my door. By the time I walk around my truck, Holland and Poppy are stepping out of an embrace.
“Hey, H.”
Holland pulls me into a bro hug. He looks good. Tanner than when he left. Poppy is smiling at him like he can do no wrong, and I can’t help but wonder if the sight of my little brother is enough to make her overlook all the reservations she shared with me. Holland has that sort of magnetism about him. He makes women forget themselves.
I load Holland’s bag into the bed of the truck. Poppy climbs into the back of the cab, and Holland slides into the passenger seat next to me. I love my brother, but I’d say the level of company up front has decreased in its appeal by a solid sixty-five percent.
“Shoot. I’ve got to return my coach’s call. Do you guys mind?”
Seventy-five percent, easy.
“Go ahead. Do whatever you have to do,” Poppy says from the back, her voice all soothing and conciliatory.
“Mallory. I literally landed ten minutes ago. What could you possibly need from me?” Holland’s tone is all stuck-up and whiny.
I chance a glance in the rearview mirror to see Poppy’s reaction. She’s looking back at me with wide eyes and shrugs.
We listen to Holland’s end of a heated conversation about tee times for his practice rounds next week and his diet, and then he hangs up with a huff.
