Page 117 of Best Kind of Trouble
She gives me an incredulous look, and I shrug. “You boxed with me. I’ll do your weird woo-woo stretches and pretend they’re exercise.”
“You’re going to like it,” she insists, sunshine flooding her expression. “It feels amazing.”
“If you say so, boss.”
And what do you know? She’s right. Even if most of my enjoyment comes from the excitement she seems to get out of leading me through her pretzel maneuvers and occasionally collapsing on the floor, plus the sight of her body curved into the different forms.
Afterward, we eat granola together—the next step in Briar’s routine—and she tells me all about “Great-Aunt Sky,” who taught her yoga and drew pictures with her. I’m glad not everyone in her childhood was an asshole, not that I’m surprised. Someone good had to be involved in the making of this woman.
“Where does Great-Aunt Sky live?” I ask as we clean the dishes in her kitchen sink.
“In the mountains in Georgia.” A frown creases her beautiful face. “I was hoping she’d come visit this month, but it didn’t work out this year.”
“I think I’d like to meet your aunt someday.”
She gives me a look of skepticism that’s not flattering to my ego. “You don’t need to say that.”
“Obviously not, but I mean it.”
With her hands still submerged in the dishwater, she tips up on her toes and kisses me.
We go to the brewery together, and I help her take down the tinsel tree, then convince her we should donate it and get ourselves a real one next year.
“I didn’t think you’d care about Christmas trees,” she comments, giving me a sidelong glance.
“I definitely don’t care about fake ones. Real ones smell nice.”
“There are a lot of hidden depths to you, Liam.”
Ann, who came in to escape her son-in-law (her words), says, “You got debts? You should consolidate those, son. The interest payments will do a number on you.”
As the day winds down, Briar and I exchange a look, and she says, “Maybe you could stop by later. If you want to.”
Oh, I want.
It’slate evening by the time we get back to Briar’s place. I’m surprised by the need I feel to learn more about her through her things. While she changes in the bedroom, I stroll around the living room, studying the framed art prints on the wall, and then pause by the wooden chest next to the sectional. It looks almost like a decorative piece, but it’s heavy and there’s nothing on top.
“What’s in this?” I ask as she emerges from the room in some flowing blue pants and a clingy white T-shirt I instantly appreciate.
“Oh, it’s nothing.” The panicked look on her face says differently.
“You secretly a drug dealer?” I tease.
She opens the lid, showing me the collection of stones, crystals, and metal wire inside.
“So you and Dottie have a secret side business peddling rocks?”
“Very funny.” She looks away. “I…I used to make a lot of jewelry. I loved it. That was my last business.”
“You kept this,” I comment, studying her. “Do you still love it?”
She rubs the spot between her eyebrows, her gaze still on the crystals. “I don’t know,” she says after a long moment. “I stopped. Or mostly stopped. It made me feel like a failure.”
“Because the business didn’t do as well as you wanted?”
She looks conflicted for a moment, but then she says, “Itwasdoing well. The woman I worked with…I thought we were a team. Turns out she was embezzling money, and then she ran off with everything in our bank account. I didn’t even try to recover the business after that. That’s why my dad doesn’t trust my judgment. I should have known better than to trust her, but Iwantedto trust her.”
“So he figures you should have known she’d run off with all your money?”
