Page 39 of Striking Range

Promising to call, I gather my phone and wallet. I make my way to Kelly, leaning into her as I reach her side.

“I need to get out of here,” I tell her. “Want to swim?”

She eyes me for a moment. “I came with Sky.”

“He looks busy enough,” I huff.

There is a second of hesitation where she looks between the two of us across the bar from each other.

She sighs. “Let me say goodbye.”

She approaches Skylar, and he leans forward for her to whisper in his ear. His eyes flash to mine briefly. I turn away, not wanting to see whatever is written there.

A minute or two later, she’s in front of me. “Come on, Romeo. Let’s go.”

I don’t question her nickname, simply following her out, happy for the escape. If I’d sat in there and watched that fuckhead grind his dick against Skylar any longer, I would have shot myself. Or him. And I’ve never even held a gun before.

So, instead, Kelly and I swim for an hour or two, making jokes about strangers from the bar and complaining about upcoming midterms. Then I Uber home.

No way am I going back to Skylar’s apartment to see if he even bothers to show up. Or worse, to be in his bed when the two of them stumble home together.

It’s only once I’ve snuck into my own bed back at the Carmichaels that I remember that I have breakfast with the Parishs in the morning.

Fuck.

As Mrs. Parish opens the front door, her grin speaks for itself. Skylar’s parents have always loved me, maybe even more than my own.

“Evie!” She pulls me in for a hug, dragging my weight onto her despite the fact that she’s five feet 4 inches and I could easily crush her curvy self.

Her sweet voice coats my headache and eases the tension of it.

“Good morning, Mrs. Parish.”

“How many times do I need to tell you, honey? Call me Camile.”

I smile at her, letting her guide me inside and into the kitchen. Her yellow sundress smacks against her calves, her flip-flops slapping with every step.

I dressed well myself: brown slacks and a white button-up. Brunch with the Parishs is always a pleasant event, and I like to be presentable.

It is a huge difference from Sundays with the Carmichaels.

Phillip Parish is helping his wife cook, currently stirring country-style home potatoes. He’s in a pair of jeans and a polo shirt, his brown hair slicked back. He’s got the same blue eyes as Skylar, standing at 6 feet and all muscle.

All of the Parishs are beautiful—they’re exactly what the Carmichaels pretend to be. The perfect all-American family—complete with their perfect son.

“Everett,” Phillip greets me, waving his spatula as I approach and reach out a hand to shake his.

“Good morning, Mr. Parish.”

He chuckles. “Always so polite. You should show my son how that works; he’s late… again.”

I look around the room, noticing that, yeah, Skylar is not here. Is he still with Jacob?

“Don’t be too hard on him, sir,” I respond. “He had two games, work, and school this week.”

Finding my seat at the table, I watch the two of them effortlessly work around each other.

“You’re too sweet to him, Evie,” Camile says. “No wonder he loves you so much.”