Page 8

Chapter

Eight

The phone buzzed just as I was slathering a thick pat of butter on my toasted English muffin, and my heart leaped. Logan hadn’t called the night before, and I was hoping this time he’d be less distracted.

“Hello?”

"Good morning, Sharla." Mom's voice sang through the speaker, and my stomach sank. What if he tried to call? We didn’t have call waiting,

"Morning Mom.” I tried to keep my voice down. "What's up?"

"Oh, just calling to firm up plans for your Christmas visit home. We can't wait to see you. When should Dad and I come pick you up from campus? We were thinking the Friday—your classes end on the sixth, right?"

I nibbled the edge of my muffin, considering. A whole month back home felt like . . . a lot. I loved my family, but being under their roof again, in my old bedroom with the N'SYNC posters still tacked to the walls, sounded stifling. Plus, if I left right when classes ended, I'd miss the invitational. Not an option. If I said there was a tournament, Mom would suggest they all come. Again, not an option.

"Actually Mom, I have some responsibilities for an invitational on campus that weekend," I fibbed, the white lie rolling easily off my tongue. I purposely left out the “hockey” part of that statement. "Could you pick me up Monday morning, the ninth, instead?"

Even though Red Deer was only an hour away, it might as well have been an alternate universe. Three weeks of Mom's doting, Dad's awkward jokes, and bumping into people from high school at the grocery store sounded like more than enough. This way, I could ring in the New Year back at Douglas with my friends and, more importantly, be here when Logan returned.

"Well, I’ll have to rearrange some plans, but. Okay. Monday the ninth it is." She only sounded mildly annoyed. I couldn’t ask for more.

We exchanged “love you”’s and I hung up, relieved to have successfully negotiated for some breathing room. I polished off the last buttery bite of muffin and strode over to the sink, feeling quite pleased with myself. Until I looked up and froze.

"Morning, sunshine."

Sunshine. I groaned internally. That was worse. So much worse. I never thought I’d find a day when I preferred the term “shithead,” but lo and behold, it had arrived. I thought I would appreciate him changing his ways and trying to get along, but now it felt like it meant something. Like he was doing it for me.

Which I knew wasn’t true. He could’ve done plenty for me over the past six months, and he hadn’t. Nothing had changed. It was probably just pity.

Rob slouched against the hallway wall, arms crossed, dark hair sticking up at odd angles like some brooding anime character. How long had he been standing there?

I self-consciously patted my own mop of bedhead as he pushed off the wall and stalked into the kitchen, zeroing in on the coffee maker like a heat-seeking missile. "Responsibilities, eh?" He threw me a knowing smirk over his shoulder as he measured out the grounds. "Funny, I don't remember you mentioning working with the invitational before."

My face heated. “Mmm, I forgot. You’re an angel who would never lie to his parents." I busied myself wiping down the spotless counter to avoid making eye contact.

Rob hummed noncommittally and punched the brew button. The gurgle of percolating coffee filled the silence between us as we circled the tiny kitchen in a strange dance.

He was wearing a shirt. It was inside out and looked like it had been haphazardly yanked on, but still. My brain took in every detail like I was cramming for an exam. Don’t forget to memorize those low-slung sweats and bare feet, they’ll be on the final!

Rob turned and leaned on the counter. He blew out a breath, then glanced at my bedroom door. “Could I, uh . . . “

It took me a second, but finally, his words computed. He needed to use the washroom. “Oh, yeah. Of course. It’s all yours.”

A flicker of something—relief?—crossed his face before he schooled it into indifference. "Thanks." The word came out like a grunt. Like it physically pained him to be polite.

As he brushed by me, a knot formed in my stomach. What if I'd left something embarrassing in there? I mentally scanned my memory of the room from last night. No tampons or panty liners. Hopefully.

Each second that ticked by felt like an eternity. I poured myself coffee now that the pot was full, then grabbed the creamer from the fridge, my stomach churning. When he finally emerged, looking unfairly refreshed, my eye caught on his toothbrush and toothpaste sitting on the kitchen counter next to the sink.

A pang of guilt prodded my conscience. I needed to rip off the Band-Aid. Just acknowledge the awkwardness and move on. I eased into it. "Sorry for waking you up so early with that phone call." I took a fortifying gulp of coffee, then forced out the words lodged in my throat. "And, um, also . . . sorry about last night."

My pulse kicked up, and a cold sweat prickled my skin. Anxiety squirmed in my gut like a live eel. Rob stepped forward, and I moved out of the way so he could pour himself a cup of coffee. He leaned against the counter, appraising me over the rim of his mug.

My ears started to buzz. I squirmed on my stool, feeling about as exposed as a nudist at a nunnery. The urge to flee to my room with my half-English muffin and coffee built up until I couldn’t stand it anymore. I was halfway off my seat when his voice stopped me cold.

"What happened to make you so afraid?"

I froze, muscles locking up like an engine seized with rust. That was his question? Like a dart hitting a bullseye, my mind landed on the summer I turned thirteen. Dead center. Straight to the heart.

I cleared my throat. "Uh, nothing. Just a bad dream.” I stared at the crumbs scattered across my plate. The weight of his stare bore into me, but mercifully, he didn’t press. I shoveled a bite of muffin into my mouth, the once fluffy bread now dry as sawdust on my tongue.

Desperate to turn the spotlight off of myself, I blurted, "So, you heading home for the holidays?"

A shadow passed over Rob's face. He gave a curt nod. "Yeah. After the invitational."

"Cool, me too." I bobbed my head, feeling like one of those toy-drinking birds. Rising on wobbly legs, I dumped my plate in the sink. “I got your note about the plumber.”

Rob ran a hand over the back of his neck. “They’re going to phone when the part comes in.”

“Okay.” I picked up my mug, blood rushing in my ears. I did not know what to do with this version of him. I was alone, and he’d watched me have a mental breakdown. He was Logan’s friend, after all. I may have misjudged him. A little— a tad. He had to have some redeeming qualities or Logan never would’ve given him the spare room in the first place.

"Well, um, sorry again for the rude awakening. I guess we’re even, hey?" I backed toward my room. "I'll just let you . . . " I made a vague gesture at his rumpled appearance even though the truth was, he could walk out on campus like that, and every girl he passed would do a double take.

Before he could respond, I darted into my bedroom and shut the door, sagging against it with a gusty exhale. Smooth, Sharla. Real smooth.