You Again | Editing

Chapter 42

Pushing open the doors of our newest reno, I take a gander, searching for what all needs to be repaired or replaced in the upcoming weeks. The more I look around, the longer my mental to-do list becomes. This house is, without a shred of doubt, going to be our biggest reno of the year.

It's a pale yellow two-story country-style home that sits on a quiet dead-end street with almost an acre of land and a porch that wraps around the entire house. The deck boards and railings on the porch are old and worn and need replacing, but in comparison to the interior, the exterior didn't require nearly as many repairs. The exterior makes the interior look like a pile of horse shit—a pile of horse shit that has potential if given the right amount of TLC.

As I inspect the cracked wood on the staircase leading to the second floor, Luke slides down the railing like the immature child he is, tools in hand and a smile spread wide on his face once he reaches the landing.

I shake my head, thinking, Only Luke, as I spot my Dad and Jason outback sawing wood. I head outside with Luke on my tail.

The November air is cool on my skin and smells of freshly cut wood. Luke puts a hand on my shoulder as he passes me, throwing me a glance over his shoulder, a smile similar to the one he had after he slid down the railing plastered on his face. Dad and Jason start chuckling.

"What's funny?"

Luke shakes his head, biting back a laugh.

Jason points a finger at me. "Who won?" he questions, measuring a sheet of plywood and marking it off where it needs to be cut.

My brows pull together. "What are you talking about?"

Jason fixes with an amused expression. "Who won the fight, you or Dyson?"

"I don't know a Dyson. And there wasn't a fight."

Jason and Luke exchange looks then squint their eyes at me. "Are you sure about that?" they ask, their voices similar in tone and pitch.

"What are you guys talking about?"

Dad pats my back, chuckling, "Never be ashamed to admit that you got into a fight with a vacuum cleaner and lost, son."

Heat rushes to my cheeks once I make the connection.

Katie gave me a hickey. Or hickeys. I'm not sure since I didn't look in the mirror before I left, but I don't care either way.

"I guess we don't need to ask you why you were late this morning," Dad laughs.

Clacking my tongue against the roof of my mouth, I bite down on my bottom lip and shake my head. There's no point in lying or denying it—especially if my neck looks anything similar to the way Katie's looks.

"So," Dad draws out the word with a pause, crossing his arms over his stomach, "how was it? And did you use protection?"

My eyes meet his, then fall on Jason and Luke's. I should've anticipated this—hickeys usually represent that you're either taken or you got some in the eyes of society. But, in mine and Katie's case, it means that we got a little carried away—as we've done a lot recently—and wanted to give each other a temporary visual souvenir of a passion-filled moment.

"Not getting into that," I reply.

It's nothing against my Dad—he's appeared to be turning over a new leaf. But the twins on the other hand? I've noticed a shift in how they've been treating and acting around me, but I'm not quite comfortable with confiding in them about this sort of thing yet. It's going to take time to rebuild that trust.

To my pleasant surprise, the twins don't attempt to wind me up or comment on my dismissive response. Instead, they stalk off into the house, carrying the cut plywood.

Progress.

Once we're alone and the twins aren't in earshot, Dad turns to me. "Did you?"

I shake my head.

"Have you told her yet?"

I shake my head again.

"You better get on that," Dad advises, his voice and features full of warning. "The longer you wait—"

I hold up a hand, cutting him off. "I know. I will."