Page 28

C hoking silence fills the void between Lotte and me as we navigate peak hour traffic. Excluding my slight hospital freak out and the baby daddy bombshell, it was an overwhelmingly positive experience. The frustratingly handsome doctor was friendly and put Lotte at ease. Her scan was normal, and if the EEG comes back the same, the Doctor Too-Young believes a medication change and therapy could alter Lotte’s life.

You wouldn’t guess that from her expression.

My stomach grumbles loudly, my growing muscles demanding a protein hit and offering me an easy conversation starter.

“Did you want to pick up some food? In-N-Out is on the next block?” I ask, hopeful her beloved sugar and grease may turn that frown upside down.

Arms wrapping tighter around her body, she stiffens in her seat. “No thanks. I’m not hungry.”

“But it’s after six, and you said yourself that all you had for lunch was half a muffin and a latte.”

Lotte says nothing, so I don't push. Instead, indicate, turn into the drive through, order half the menu then pull into an empty space in the parking lot.

“One Double-Double, for one Lotte-Lotte.” Sliding the unwrapped burger onto her lap, I tip a serve of fries onto the crinkled, grease stained paper and pop a thick shake in her cup holder and the remove the lid. The crackle of plastic draws her gaze which flutters between fries and shake.

Exactly as is planned.

It only takes thirty seconds for the first fry to be dipped. Somewhere between the cup and her pouty lips, a drop of creamy white liquid drips onto her thumb then free falls, landing smack bang between her gloriously massive boobs. Mouth agape, I watch the same thumbs swipe through her cleavage. Listen to the soft moan that spills from her lips as she licks the frozen desert from her thumb. It’s downright sinful and she hasn’t even noticed the creamy residue decorating the swell of her breast. It kind of looks like …. whoa.

Is it hot in here?

Reminding myself my friend is in crisis, I shift in my seat, switch the ignition and blast the fan. One vent is facing Lottie though, meaning the soft tendrils of buttery, golden locks float like a model in a photo shoot. One such lock snags on her lips and I watch transfixed as freshly licked clean, delicate fingers, pinch the hair away. That soft pink tongue following in their path.

How I long to slip my achingly hard cock between those lips. To feel the slightest brush of that tongue.

It’s quite possible I just orgasmed.

Fuck, I am such a dude.

“What?” Lotte’s furrowed brow comes in to focus as she snaps me from my wet day dream. “Why are you staring at me like that? Is it because of Carole?” The one-sided sexual tension dissolves as Lotte erupts into tears. “I knew you’d look at me differently. We don’t even know if it’s true, but you’re already judging me.”

“No, I’m not.” I’m objectifying you. “I swear.”

Fat tears continue to stream down her face as she opens her mouth and shoves the remainder of her Double-Double in. It’s way sexier than it should be, and I’m again forced to remind myself that now is the time for action, not sexy thoughts.

It’s then that I decide to solve everything, cause girls love it when guys fix their problems without even asking. Right?

“We need to get a DNA test. Getting Carole to agree will be tricky … maybe I can pluck a hair from his …. Oh. Wait. He’s almost bald and what hair does have is so blonde you can hardly see it. Hmm.” I continue to rattle of a series of plans. Each more genius than the last. Scheming not only takes my mind of Lotte’s saucy boobs, it makes me feel in control. Like I’m really helping. The only problem is, I get so lost on my own head, I’m not paying any attention to the woman I believe I am rescuing.

“Please don’t do that, Noah.”

“What? The DNA test?”

“No. Try to fix me. Just let me cry. Just let me feel it.”

“But—”

“No but’s. I know you want to help. That you need Carole not be my dad as much as I do.”

“It’s not that, Lot.” Squealing and groaning, the steering wheel strains under my white-knuckle grip. “I don’t give a shit who your father is. It could be Tom Wilson for all I care, and I really hate Tom Wilson.” Cute blinking tells me Lotte has no idea who Tom is, but I persist. “What I need is for you not to be sad. You being sad is the worst. I can’t handle and would do anything to make it better. To make you smile.” I’m rambling, I know I am but I can’t seem to stop. “If you want me to help. I will. If you want me to shut up. I will, even though I can’t seem to right now, cause like I said the other day. You’re one of my best friends, and—”

“Please just take me home, Noah. That’s the best way to help me. Take me home.”

The same silence that permeated the air before In-N-Out, lingers on the way back to Lotte’s apartment, following us up the damn stairs and down that long, dark hallway. The only difference being it’s punctured but the occasional sob when Lotte fails to reign on her tears, and a tic when she can no longer suppress.

I can pick up when she’s doing it now. She hums a little and clears her throat, then, just like when she tells a fib, her cute little nostrils flare, like she’s angered by the betrayal of her own body. I want to tell her she doesn’t have to suppress her tics around me. That I don’t care. That they in no way, shape or form affect how I feel about her. Change how much I want her. But after a lengthy discussion with Claire, and a lot of research, I realize Lotte may not be suppressing them for me. She may be doing it for herself. Eventually I will work up the courage to find out if it’s one, the other, or a little of both. But our relationship is a fragile as Lotte is beautiful. I can’t risk placing more strain on something I dependently want to stay intact.

Once inside her tiny living room, she kicks of her converse and places them neatly next to her skate bag that sits by the door. She must notice me looking at them, because she zips up the bag and carries it into her room.

“Did you plan on skating today? I can take you tomorrow if you like?”

“You have a game tomorrow,” she calls out from her room, her voice heavy. Sad. “Besides, I have to cook.”

“Let me help cook then.” When she returns, her hair is up in a messy bun. Glasses on. All wrapped up in a fluffy pink robe I pray to God cover some really thick, ugly pajamas. Not the miles and miles of soft, delicate skin I remember tracing with my tongue.

Down boy.

Clearing my throat, I stare at what feels safe, the ceiling, which I realize she has begun to paint. A small cluster of what I think are stars, but may be snowflakes, decorate the space between the kitchen and the lounge where the clouds float. Positioned close to the light, they glow. Each one a different shade of glittering pink. “Are the meals the same as last time?” I ask, unable to remove my gaze, “We’re cutting chicken? Peeling potato? Braising beef?”

“Roasting beef, yes” The smile in her voice, one I can hear without looking, makes me feel king of the world. I did that. “But like I said, you have a game tomorrow. You should be at home, resting.”

“Never fear, Little D. I’ve been sitting on my ass most of the day. I’m plenty rested.” Instead of waiting for her approval, I march into the kitchen and slip on an apron adorned with daisies that barely covers to my lower abdomen. “Where do I start, chef?”

Nostrils flaring, Lotte sucks her teeth between her lips. “I do like a distraction while I cook … but normally it’s Billie Eilish, not a hockey boy checking out his flow in every reflective surface.” I clutch at my heart, pretending to be wounded when I’m really just proud as fuck she’s noticed my flow. And knows what a flow is. “There’s nothing I can do to make you leave, though. Is there?”

“Nope.”

Grumbling under her breath, she pads into the kitchen, inhales deeply, then stands on the tip of her toes. When I realize what she’s doing, I bend a little, meeting her halfway so she can press a kiss to my cheek. “Thank you for today. I’m not quite sure what to do about the whole, Carole thing yet, but it helps to have the SKISCO to focus on. And to know that whatever I decide, you’ll be there with me … at least I hope you will.”

“You know I will. And not just me. Claire, Brady. Quinn.” Lotte drops then knife she just picked up.

“Quinn!”

“Quinn!” we curse in unison.

Quick as a flash, Lotte races to her Gran’s old bedroom at the end of the hall, her socked feet skidding on the laminate flooring as she takes the corner. “Quinn, are you in there?” she asks, knocking gently, but rapidly as she drops her voice to a whisper. “I can’t believe we forgot her.”

“How did you even get in when you gave her your key?”

“I have three spares. Mom’s and Gran”s. I could never bare to take them off my key ring.”

Fuck that’s sad.

When Quinn fails to answer, Lotte quietly opens the door to find an empty room. A 1970‘s style lamp the shape of a hula girl, sits on the table by the unmade bed, casting a soft yellow glow throughout the room. Below it sits a note.

Lotte, Thank you for letting me stay. If you come in here looking for me, I’m not here.

Lotte slaps her free palm against her head. “Duh, Quinn.”

Gone to see Troye. Back by morning. Don’t tell dad if he calls. He won’t. But in case he does, don’t. xo, Quinn.

“Well, that’s clear as mud.” Lotte’s giggle lights the room more than that ugly damn lamp ever could. “That girl is capable of genius level calculus in her sleep, but put a cute boy in front of her and she can’t add one plus two.”

Three, I chuckle to myself before saying out loud. “Kind of ironic given the situation.”

“What situation?”

Sparks zip though my fingers, directly into my bloodstream as I place my hands on Lotte’s shoulders and steer her out the door. “You want to be distracted while we cook? Here’s the story of a boy named Brady.”

“So Brady likes Quinn and this Troye kid?”

I scoff at Lotte calling someone likely to be older than her, kid. “Think so, yeah.”

“And Troye keeps sending photos of himself scoring to Brady?”

“Yup.”

“To taunt him?”

“Maybe, yeah. My guess is he knows Brades likes Quinn. That him scoring with Quinn would burn, so when he scores on the ice, he sends the pic to double down.”

The scent of bay leaves and cloves tickle my nose as Lotte rubs them between her fingers then shoves them down the neck, or ass, of the last chicken. “That’s pretty ,” She says, looking over her shoulder as she picks up the roasting pan, pulls then over open with her toes, then slides the tray inside with a practiced ease I find oddly hot.

“It is. But Troye was a goalie on our junior team. They’re into some pretty weird shit.” I’m about to spill Brady’s troll tea but hesitate. I’ve already broken the bro-code a little by gossiping about Troye. Somethings need to be sacred. Looks like Trolls are it.

“Why are they so weird? Goalies I mean.” Lotte clarifies, “I’ve read been researching hockey mythology, and from what I’ve discovered, along with your beloved puck bunnies and entrenched superstitions, the ‘Weird Goalie’ phenomenon is the most unanimously agreed opinion in the sport and … why are you looking at me like that?” Her cheeks take on a rosy hue as she catches me starring, admiring.

“You’re just … so different to everyone I’ve met.”

A cute little wrinkle appears between her brows. “Freaky, you mean.”

My stomach does a slow roll, shame adding a twist when I think of the day we first met. “No. I mean … you use big words like one of the history or linguistic professors. It’s hot … See.” I laugh, wiping my hands on a cloth then bending to place them on Lotte’s fluffy-robe covered shoulders, squeezing instead of ripping the thing off like I want to. “You just dropped mythology, phenomenon, and unanimously in one sentence and the best I could come up with was, big words and it’s hot.”

“The majority of my life had been spent with adults. The common vernacular of youth is a mystery to me.”

Common vernacular of youth. This girl is killing me.

I decide against pointing the last weirdly sexy phrase out. Best not to make her more self-conscious than she already is. “Not all of it. You know about puck bunnies, which aren’t mine, by the way.” Not anymore, at least. “And hockey flows.”

“Only because of my research.” Voice fading, her eyes follow the movement of my middle and index fingers that, under their own steam, have snuck beneath the collar of her robe. Lazy circles are being traced on her soft skin and I can’t say I’m displeased with their decision.

I should be though. Cause yeah. We’re friends and all but this is a little too friendly. “Sorry.” I wince, slowly siding my fingers back to the safe zone.

“Don’t be sorry. I like it.” Taking my breath away, Lotte seems to float forward, leaning into my touch, and tilting her head till my fingers are sandwiched under her ear. There’s just enough room for my thumb to move, and I use the space to caress the lines and dips of her neck and collarbone, arousal swooping down my spine to sit in my rapidly firming cock. She’s so close now. Her body so lovely and temptingly warm against mine. She must feel my hardness.

Embarrassed, I apologize again and move to step away but Lotte shakes her head.

“Don’t leave.” She fists my shirt in her hand till my clavicle is exposed, then tugs me closer. Chest to chest. I smell a field of flowers in her hair. Feel her breath warm against my skin. It’s torture.

My favorite kind of torture.

“Come to bed. Stay with me. Please?”

Words I mean less than any others I have ever said, fall from my mouth. “I think I should leave. I don’t want to stay and be something you regret.”

“Regret? Noah, I would regret letting you leave more than I could ever regret what will happen if you stay.”

Torn between what is right and what I want. I shake my head. But then Lotte’s bottom lip trembles, and I swear a small piece of my heart shatters. “Everybody leaves me, Noah. Please be the one to stay. Even if it’s just for tonight.”

If only she knew I’d happily be the one to stay forever.