Chapter 7

7

Mikayla

“You should get out first,” I tell Jake. “I’ll wait in the car. Just in case.”

Jake groans, then squares his shoulders, as if preparing for battle. The second he steps out of the car, he gets blasted with paint pellets, one after the other. I wince, then giggle as I look around, trying to find the gunman… or gunmen . They’re nowhere to be seen. “Fuck you!” Jake yells, spinning in circles as if that’s somehow going to stop the assault. The attack only lasts seconds—ten at most—but when it’s over, my boyfriend, along with his dad’s car, is dotted in green. There’s barely a moment of reprieve before a new set of shots sounds through the air, and now Jake is just outside the car running around, changing directions every few feet. Confused, I get up on my knees to see what the hell is happening. The shots ring out first, followed immediately by the plumes of dirt that rise from around Jake’s feet. He squeals every time a BB pellet almost gets him and hops from foot to foot. I bust out a giggle, watching his dramatic ass trying to dodge each shot. And, suddenly, the sounds stop. Jake looks up into the darkness of the night. “Reveal yourself!” he demands, and it only makes me laugh harder. He points toward the cabin. “You motherfucker!”

Cam, in all black, is standing on the roof, his arms up in surrender. “I’m coming down,” he calls out, waving a white flag.

“You’re surrendering?” Jake yells. “I haven’t done shit to you!”

Cam disappears from the roof, and Jake takes the opportunity to open the back door, retrieve a bucket of water balloons I hadn’t even known were there. Cam’s guns vs. Jake’s balloons might seem like a dumb move on Jake’s end, but he’s a professional pitcher . My man doesn’t miss. Now Dylan with a gun and Jake with balloons—that’s a matchup. Jake uses the back door as a shield, ducking just above the window so he can see Cam approaching. I get up on my knees, scoping the area with him. “Good looking out, baby,” he says, and I can’t help but smile. For seconds that feel like hours, we wait, and wait, and wait. There are no sightings of Cam, or even Lucy. No sounds. Nothing. Then I check the rearview and gasp, “Behind you!” But I’m too late. Cam already has his mark, and Jake spins to him, getting a stream of liquid directly to his face. The smell is instant. Tuna . And Jake gags at the stench but doesn’t back down. The first balloon hits Cam square in the face, splattering red all over him. Oh, so not water. Noted. Cam doesn’t even have time to react before Jake hits him with another to the chest. This one yellow.

Ketchup and?—

“Mustaaaaaaaaaard!” Cam bellows, and then they’re off into the surrounding woods—Jake with his bucket and Cam with his super soaker, roars of laughter shared between them.

A tap, tap, tapping at my window has me slowly, cautiously, facing it. Lucy stands just outside, covered head to toe in fake leaves, holding the tiniest water pistol I’ve ever seen. “Pew-pew, motherfucker.”

I get out of the car, snickering, and immediately wrap my arms around her. “What the hell are you wearing?”

“Cam got it, asked me to wear it.” She shrugs. “You know what they say. Happy husband, crazy cunnilingus.”

“Oh, my god,” I laugh out.

“You’re supposed to be my target, but I got distracted reading on my phone. So anyway.” She attempts to squirt me in the face with her joke of a water pistol. It’s so small, so weak, that all it does is leak water from the nozzle. “Pew-pew.”

Shaking my head, I open the trunk to retrieve Katie’s present and a bottle of wine, then walk arm in arm toward the cabin. “How long do you think they’re going to be out there?” I ask.

“Until they run out of ammo.”

We make it to the porch steps when a car pulls up. Amanda’s behind the wheel of Logan’s car, and so we stop, wait for them to join us. Logan approaches first, with a six-pack in each hand, two beers already gone. “What the hell are you wearing?”

Lucy giggles, and I answer for her. “It’s for the cunnilingus.”

“Makes sense,” he says, nodding and looking around. “Where are the guys?”

“In the woods,” Lucy answers.

“Right.”

Logan waits for Amanda to join him, and after quick greetings, we enter the warmth of the cabin, one after the other. I take their gift for Katie and mine and set them under the Christmas tree, while Logan parks himself on the couch. He’s quick to crack open another beer and down half the bottle in a single sip. I glance over at Amanda, who offers a sad smile. Then motion to the kitchen, where Lucy’s dumping a bag of chips into a bowl.

Amanda and I join her and huddle close together. I ask, motioning toward Logan, “Is he okay?”

“I don’t know,” Amanda replies. “We spent the day at the hospital again, and… he’s had a rough few days.”

I pout. “And you? How are you?”

“I’m good. I just wish there was more I could do for him.”

Lucy pulls away, taking a giant store-bought cookie from a paper bag. Without a word, she hides the cookie behind her back and makes her way over to Logan, who’s staring off into space, the contents of the beer he opened only seconds ago completely gone. Lucy doesn’t speak, doesn’t ask him questions. She simply sits sideways on his lap, her legs folded beneath her. She looks like a child against Logan—like a little baby bush he just bought at Home Depot to plant in his yard.

“How you doing, Lucy-Lu?” he mumbles, resting his head on the back of the couch.

She doesn’t reply, just offers the cookie to him. His smile is immediate. So is the way his shoulders relax. He takes it from her, but doesn’t eat it right away. Instead, he runs his hand up and down her back, the way a brother would console his little sister. Logan and Lucy have always been close, their friendship deep and long-lasting. I can’t remember their story in its entirety. I just know that it started with a cookie. It’s kind of fitting that it continues the same way. I glance over at Amanda, who watches them, not an ounce of jealousy or even questioning. There’s only concern for the man she loves.

Jake often looks at me the same way.

We hear them before we see them, their voices loud. “At least I didn’t have to get my brother-in-law to build me a shelf for my participation trophies,” Jake cracks.

“Your hairline’s so far back you salute with your hand behind your head.”

“Yeah, well, your face looks vacuum sealed!”

“Funny. Your mom didn’t seem to have a problem riding my face last night.”

The front door bursts open, and Jake turns to Cameron, his hand to his chest in mock horror. “You leave Mandy out of this!”

Beside me, Amanda makes a show of sniffing the air. “Why does it smell like tuna casserole?”

Cameron chuckles, then looks around before clapping his hands and shrieking, “Logan’s here!” He practically skips toward the couch and makes quick work of removing Lucy from Logan’s lap, then taking her spot. Both legs over Logan’s, he pats Logan’s head. Or, at least, that’s what it looks like. It’s not until the egg yolk oozes down Logan’s forehead that I realize what’s happening.

Where the hell did he get the egg from?

Eyes closed, Logan grips his beer tighter and murmurs, “You fucker.”

“Clear it,” Jake calls, and Cam leans back, giving Jake the line of sight he needs to pitch an egg directly at Logan’s chest.

“Oof,” Logan winces, smearing the egg on his sweatshirt as he rubs at the spot. “That one fucking hurt.”

Now it’s Jake’s turn to skip over to the couch, singing, “Yay! Logan’s here!” He sits on the other side of Logan, lifting his legs over Cameron’s.

Amanda giggles. “Idiots,” she mutters, just as Cam smashes another egg on Logan’s head.

He rubs it in this time, ruffling Logan’s hair when he asks, in a tone used for a kid, “How you doing there, buddy?”

Again, where are they getting these eggs?

Logan cracks a smile, only one eye open to avoid the yolk streaming down his face. “Good now,” he says, pulling his friends in closer. “I got two bad bitches on my lap.”

Cam laughs, tells him, “Fuck off,” and tries to pull away, but Logan’s grip on his shoulder forces him to stay.

The front door opens again, and Dylan and Riley appear.

“Dylan!” Lucy shouts, and we all turn silent. It’s a stupid joke that’s gone on for far too long, but we can’t seem to shake it.

Riley looks shocked at what she just walked into. Dylan, though? He doesn’t seem the slightest bit phased.

The boys all stand, their spines ramrod straight as Dylan approaches them. He looks each one of them up and down—Cam splattered with ketchup and mustard, Jake reeking of fish, and Logan with literal egg on his face. Dylan shakes his head, utters, “Weak.”

“Sir, yes, sir!” the other boys say in unison.

“Sorry, sir!” Logan yells.

“Pathetic,” Dylan jokes.

Riley places Katie’s gift under the tree while Logan finally relaxes and takes his first bite of the cookie.

“You have cookies?” Dylan asks, all excited, his voice filled with childish glee.

Lucy replies, “Just the one for Logan, sorry.”

Dylan pouts.

“We have cookie dough, I think,” Cameron tells him.

“Fuck yeah!” The boys all rush into the kitchen, forcing us girls out of the way. We move to the living room and sit on the floor by the Christmas tree.

“Oh, my god,” Riley mumbles, removing her coat. “It took us so long just to come up the driveway. Dylan kept stopping and starting, thinking he was under attack.”

Lucy laughs, looking over at the guys in the kitchen. “Nah. They’re too scared to mess with the King of Mayhem.”