Page 19

CHAPTER NINETEEN

HUNTER

S hadows recede across white plaster as the sun rises. I continue staring at the ceiling as the light spreads, same as I have for the past hour.

You probably don’t remember.

You probably don’t remember.

You probably don’t remember.

Those four words echo endlessly in my head.

I froze as soon as she said them.

Listening to them on a loop, I nearly start laughing out loud.

I lost track of how many times I thought about meeting Eve freshman year a long time ago. The next time I saw her—in the dining hall a couple of weeks later—she was holding hands with a guy wearing a Star Wars shirt, beaming at him like he’d hung the damn moon.

I found out, after Conor started dating Eve’s best friend, that his name was Ben. Harlow mentioned once that they met at a Freshman Week event—maybe the same one Eve and I did.

I didn’t think Eve remembered talking to me . And I certainly wasn’t expecting her to bring it up last night. Does it mean something that she did, or was she just reminiscing? Thinking back to the start of college since we were discussing its end?

Uncertainty is my least favorite feeling.

Do I pretend she never said anything? Let her continue thinking I don’t remember? Do I admit I would have asked her out if she’d still been there when I got back? Do I ask her out now?

She made out with one of the guys hitting on her in the bar. And it sounded like she left the bar because she was upset about her dad not coming to graduation, not her ex. But she’s been single for a week, and was with her ex for years .

Bottom line: I never thought I’d have a second chance with her. I’m terrified of fucking it up somehow.

There’s also the tiny issue that we’re graduating in a couple of months. Eve is planning to move to New York. I got into Columbia, but the only reason I applied was because they have one of the top political science programs in the country and my advisor recommended I at least consider it. Not because it was a school I was seriously considering. But I could . Could chase a girl I’ve never even kissed to the opposite side of the country.

I groan, punch my pillow, and sit up. Yawn. I’m tired, yet I can’t sleep.

I roll out of bed and pull on a pair of running shorts. It feels weird to sleep in just my boxer briefs, in what is technically the living room, so I’ve been wearing a shirt to bed too.

Well, you’ve still got a six-pack.

I smile automatically, recalling Eve’s blush after she blurted that out. On second thought, maybe I should stop wearing shirts altogether.

I use the bathroom off the kitchen, grab a bottle of water from the fridge, and then step outside. It feels warmer today, but the sky is overcast. Clouds above threaten rain, and so does the dampness hovering in the air.

I jog down the driveway, hoping any showers will hold off but not really caring if I stay dry or not.

Rain can be nice. Peaceful. I’ve gotten accustomed to a lot of it, living in Somerville. One item on a long list of things I’ll miss wherever I move next.

The route I run takes me about forty-five minutes. Just long enough to listen to another episode of the murder podcast Eve put on in the car. They still haven’t caught the killer by the end, which I’m disappointed by. Something to look forward to when I run tomorrow, I guess.

Hart is in the kitchen, brewing coffee, when I get back to the house.

He looks me over. It didn’t actually start raining, but my shirt is damp from mugginess and sweat. “Shit, man. You already went running?”

“Yeah.” I grab more water out of the fridge and gulp it down. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Sorry, man. I feel bad you got stuck on the sofa.”

“Don’t. It’s fine. It wasn’t the couch.”

Conor swipes his keys off the counter. “Wanna go for a drive? We’re out of eggs and bread. I told Harlow I’d run to the store.”

“Sure.” I drain the rest of my glass, and then follow Conor out to his car.

He fiddles with the stereo while I snap my seat belt on, then reverses past my SUV.

“So…you wanna talk about it?” he asks once we’re driving down the street.

“Talk about what?”

“Whatever’s been bumming you out lately.”

I blow out a long breath. “I’ve gotta decide what I’m doing next year.”

“What do you mean? I thought you were waiting to hear back from grad schools.”

“Yeah. I heard back. And now I have to decide where to go.”

A complicated decision that’s only gotten more challenging since Sean relapsed again .

“How many options do you have?”

“Ten,” I answer.

“ Ten ? Jesus. How many schools did you apply to?”

“Ten.”

Hart whistles. “Damn, man. Congrats.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“When do you have to decide by?”

“April fifteenth.”

“That’s still weeks away.”

“I know, but what’s gonna change between now and then? I just need to…choose. And…I should pick UW.”

“University of Wyoming? Why?”

“It’s close to my parents.”

I still feel guilty for coming to Holt for college. Who knows what I could have done to help Sean the past four years, but at least I would have been there for my mom and dad. They lost Sean to drugs, and I moved a thousand miles away.

“They ask you to move back?”

Conor’s tone is careful, same as I am when we discuss his family. He’s obviously assumed I wouldn’t move home because things are so great. Probably because I’m making UW sound like a death sentence, not an opportunity. Because no matter how much I want to support my parents—and I do—it’s hard not to see returning to Wyoming as a regression. I may pick up every time Sean calls, but that doesn’t mean I don’t resent him for needing to call in the first place. Moving back there will be stepping into quicksand. I’ll get sucked back in to all of Sean’s shit.

“No,” I answer. “They wouldn’t ask. That’s the problem. They’d tell me to go wherever I want to go.”

And if I do that, they’ll be the ones stuck with Sean’s selfishness.

Conor exhales as he brakes at a stoplight. One of a few this town has, I’m betting. I couldn’t believe the number of people at Sand Bar, since this town seems smaller than Somerville. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, your future looks more solid than mine.”

“Bullshit. You’re gonna get drafted, Hart.”

He shrugs a shoulder before stepping on the gas again. “Do you know how many free agents have gotten drafted in the past ten years? The odds aren’t exactly in my favor.”

“Fuck the odds, man. What were the chances we’d win a national championship?”

“Exactly. Maybe I used up my one miracle already.”

“I don’t think it works that way. Everyone loves an underdog.”

“Right. And no one liked Gretzky or Orr or Howe or?—”

“None of those guys started out as household names, Hart. They put in the work, just like you have. Just like you will. Not a single thing you could have done more this season.”

“Not one, huh?”

I know exactly what he’s referring to. “I was wrong about Harlow, okay?”

“No. You were right, about me getting distracted. What you didn’t realize—and me neither—I wanted her more than that championship. I love her more than I love hockey.”

“Wow.” Coming from Conor, there’s no stronger declaration. The guy eats, sleeps, and breathes hockey. There’s dedication and obsession, and then there’s Hart on the ice.

I had a good idea how he felt about Harlow. But I’ve never heard him lay it out in such stark terms. Never heard him sound so sure .

Hart chuckles. “Yeah. That’s part of why I’m so stressed about the draft. The uncertainty isn’t just fucking with my future. It’s messing with Harlow’s too.”

“She knows that’s nothing you can control. And she’s crazy about you. You guys will figure it out.”

“I hope so. I don’t know—I don’t know what I’d do if…” He sighs. “There are oceans all over the fucking place, you know? Covers seventy-one percent of the planet. What if she gets a job in the fucking Arctic, studying seals or something?”

I snicker. Which makes me a shitty friend, because Hart sounds genuinely tortured by the possibility. “Well, if that happens and you don’t get drafted, you can go with her. Living in an igloo would be cool.”

Pun intended.

Conor snorts. “An igloo makes me feel a lot better about everything. Thanks.”

I grin. “Anytime.”

He parks and shuts off the car. “You’ll be there, right? If I do make it?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I assure him. “I’ll even skip class.”

Hart grins. He and Phillips made fun of me for not missing Friday’s lecture. “Attaboy.”

It starts sprinkling as we cross the asphalt, headed for the supermarket’s automatic doors.

“I’m so damn sick of the rain,” Conor grouses.

“Maybe you’ll get drafted to Florida,” I say. “Solid team, sunny, and plenty of ocean for Harlow.”

“Yeah, except she actually loves the rain.”

“Dude, now you’re just being difficult,” I say as I grab one of the metal shopping carts. “No place is perfect.”

“Says the guy bummed out because ten grad schools are begging for him to attend.”

“No one’s begging,” I mutter.

Most of them did offer me pretty generous scholarships, though, so point taken. Options are a luxury.

“Doritos are on sale. Sweet. Cool Ranch?”

“Sure. Grab ’em.” I continue down the aisle, stopping in front of the baking section to study the Jell-O mix flavor options. They have lime, so I grab a box and toss it in the cart.

Conor groans, then tosses a bag of chips on top. “Seriously?”

“Have you ever even tried it?” I challenge.

A grunt is Hart’s only reply.

We grab two loaves of multigrain and some bananas before heading toward the checkout. I pause in the refrigerated section to pick up a container of soy milk. Eve drank her coffee black yesterday.

Conor’s eyebrows lift. “Since when do you drink soy milk?”

I ignore the question. “Is that everything?”

Hart scans the contents of the shopping cart. “I think so—aw, shit. We still need eggs.”

“’Kay. I’ll grab a carton. Get in line.”

There’s only one register open, and five people waiting to check out.

“And get Phillips more blue Gatorade!” Conor calls after me.

I roll my eyes as I head back toward the drink section. I don’t get why he indulges Aidan’s weird obsessions but makes fun of mine.

They’re out of blue Gatorade on the shelf, so I have to convince one of the yawning employees to grab a case from the stockroom in the back. By the time I make it back to the register, Conor is second in line to check out. I’m glad he stayed, because there are at least ten people waiting behind him. I have to squeeze past them all—knocking a packet of gum off the shelf—to stick the Gatorade under the cart.

Phillips owes me.

I pick the gum up, go to set it back, and then just toss it in the cart. My stomach is growling from the combination of exercise and no food, so that’ll give me something to chew on until we get back to the rental.

The drizzle is coming down faster when we exit. Luckily it’s a short trip across the parking lot.

I help load the back of Hart’s car as quickly as possible, grab my gum, and climb in the front. Water droplets are coasting down my hair and soaking my shoulders, reminding me again that I need a haircut.

Conor runs the cart back to the entrance. By the time he returns, his gray Holt Hockey T-shirt looks black.

“Smart, to run early,” he comments, flipping the wipers to their highest speed. “I’m going to have to wait until later.”

“We could go surfing again,” I suggest.

“Fuck no,” Hart replies instantly. “And don’t you dare suggest that to Phillips.”

I laugh. “He was talking about bowling this week too.”

“I’m good with that,” Conor says as he pulls out of the parking lot. “Hayes and I haven’t been since, uh, you know.”

I do know. He went bowling with Harlow, one of her friends, and Clayton last semester, which set off a series of unfortunate events that put me smack-dab in the middle between my first friend at Holt and one of my closest friends. I know Hart feels bad about that, but Clayton wasn’t entirely innocent either.

“Did you consider asking Harlow out sooner? Like, sophomore year, after she broke up with Williams?”

Bringing up Harlow’s past with one of our teammates is a risky decision. But it’s the closest comparison I can come up with for my current situation. Harlow and Jack dated for a couple of months, not three years, so I’m not sure it’s much of one, but I’m sorta desperate for advice.

Conor looks more confused than annoyed about the question.

“No,” he finally answers. “I wish I had. Wish that we’d had more guaranteed time together. And I know it makes me a hypocrite, but I hate the thought of her being with anyone else.”

I’m well aware of that last part. There’s a hole the size of Conor’s fist in his bedroom wall that our landlord is going to throw a fit about when we move out.

“But I wasn’t ready,” he continues. “I needed to grow up. Figure some shit out.”

“Yeah, that makes sense.”

“Why are you asking?”

“Just…timing, I guess. We’re so close to the end of college. I keep thinking about ways some things might have worked out differently.”

“Is this related to your recent interest in dating?”

“A little. I thought I’d meet someone, at some point. Not everyone blinks twice and realizes their soulmate is the girl they spent the past three years avoiding, you know.”

“That’s not exactly how it happened,” Conor says wryly.

“You get what I mean, though.”

He exhales. “Yeah. I do.”

You probably don’t remember.

I sigh too, in response to the echo of Eve’s voice in my head. “Even if I met someone soon, it’d be shitty timing with graduation coming up.”

Rather than agree, like I’m expecting, Conor laughs. “Morgan, there’s no ideal time to fall in love. It just fucking happens, and then you’ve got to figure the rest out.”