Page 41 of The No Touch Roommate Rule (That Steamy Hockey Romance #2)

“I’m the girl who used to listen to Parker every Friday night, and some Saturdays, too.

I’d do what I could to help him feel less sad about the fact that his parents were selfish jerks who never had time for their son,” I say, my voice wobbling.

“That they cared more about getting wasted and fighting in the driveway after a dinner at their stupid country club than?—”

“That’s enough,” Mr. Parker cuts in, sharp enough to make me flinch.

But not sharp enough to make me back down.

“Is it? I don’t think so, Phillip .” I spit his first name with the same smug derision he spits out all his awful opinions.

“You stand here, mocking Parker’s very natural, very beautiful love for his nana, like it’s something to be ashamed of, while you act like treating your own mother like an inconvenience is normal.

But that’s not normal. None of this is normal! ”

“Makena—”

I cut Parker off, rolling too hard to stop now.

“It’s not normal to care more about what you want than what makes other people happy.

It’s not normal to have contempt for your own child.

It’s not normal to judge and sneer and just assume your son will never be good enough, especially when Parker is the most wonderful?—”

“Makena, seriously.” Parker’s hand clamps around my upper arm as he adds in a firmer tone, “Stop. Please.”

I suck in a breath, pressing my lips together to hold the rest of the words in.

But it’s too late. His father’s looking at me now. Really looking, with something worse than dismissal on his face.

The expression is horribly familiar.

He looks just like my dad did that day on the curb in Saint Magnus.

His gaze flicks to Parker, his eyebrows inching up his forehead. “Makena, the babysitter? Really? Good God, Leo.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, looking tired. Embarrassed. “I thought you’d outgrown this kind of thing.”

“We’re done here,” Parker says, his fingers tightening on my arm.

“Remember your teacher in second grade?” his father asks. “How you kept asking her to be your girlfriend? Over and over until we had to have a meeting?”

“I was a little kid, Dad, I didn’t even understand what that meant,” he says, pulling me along with him as he backs away. “It’s not the same thing at all. Not even close.” To me, he adds beneath his breath, “Walk. Now. Please.”

“We shouldn’t let him win,” I whisper back.

“Just walk. Please,” he begs.

“Okay, okay,” I mutter, allowing him to pull me around the corner, past the buzzing vending machines, to a quiet alcove near the public bathrooms.

Finally, when there’s a good hundred feet or more between us and his piece of shit father, he releases my arm. “Jesus Christ, what a shitshow.” He paces a few steps away, exhaling a ragged breath.

“I’m sorry,” I squeak. “Are you mad at me?”

“No. Of course, not.” But he doesn’t look at me as he continues to pace, the hitch in his step from his injury more pronounced since his dash across the square yesterday.

“But now he’s embarrassed. Of Nana, of me, of the fucking scene we just made…

” He curses beneath his breath. “And when he’s embarrassed, he’s vindictive.

I’d bet my hand he’s going to try to override the directive and get her transferred, just to prove he can.

Just to prove he’s in charge. I wish…” He sighs, letting the words trail off, but I can fill in the blank.

He wishes I’d kept my mouth shut.

“I’m sorry,” I repeat. “I was just trying to help.”

“Are you sure?” He turns to me, his expression kind, but frustrated in a way that reminds me of someone. “Whose battle were you fighting back there, Mack? Yours or mine?”

Shame floods through my chest.

Yep, that’s who his expression reminds me of.

My father’s. Parker’s nothing like his dad. He’s a good man who cares about me. There’s still affection in his gaze right now, but there’s also frustration and a hint of disappointment.

Biting the inside of my cheek, I nod, not trusting myself to respond out loud without bursting into tears.

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” Parker drags both hands down his face.

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. And I’m not mad, I promise.

I just can’t do this right now, Mack. I can’t manage Dad and you and figure out what’s best for Nana and get all the paperwork lined up, or hire a lawyer or whatever I’m going to have to do all at the same time. ”

My voice is small as I say, “I’m not asking you to manage me.”

“I know, but it’s just… It is what it is.” He pins me with his weary gaze. “I think maybe you should go. Just head back to New Orleans, get rested up, and I’ll let you know as soon as I have things sorted out here.”

The words hang between us like a diagnosis I’ve been dreading.

This can’t be happening.

Not again.

“Please,” I whisper. “Don’t send me away.”

Something flickers across his face. Pain maybe. Or just exhaustion so bone-deep it looks like pain.

“I’m not. I’m protecting you. Us ,” he says. “I can’t focus on Nana if I’m worried that you and my dad are tearing into each other behind the scenes. And my focus has to be with her right now. I’m sorry.”

He’s already backing away. Not physically—we’re still in the alcove, two steps from the toilets—but inside, he’s already tucking me into a “hard to handle” file to manage at a later date.

I’ve gone from his partner to another mess to clean up, a liability to be contained, just like with every other guy I’ve ever dated.

Even Christian, the man who used me like his own personal ATM, felt like he’d had to work too hard to “manage” me. Sometimes I wonder if that’s how he justified cleaning out our joint savings account, even though most of the money in there was mine.

Maybe he felt he deserved it as compensation for all the pain and suffering associated with loving me.

“Fine.” The word tastes sour and awful in my mouth, but I’m not going to beg anymore. Not now or ever again. “I’ll get myself to the airport.”

He sighs. “No, you don’t have to do that. Just let me check on Nana, then I can run you back by the house and?—”

“No, it’s fine.” I force a smile as I start down the hall. “I’ll grab a cab. I saw a few waiting out front yesterday. It’s not a big deal. You take care of Nana.”

“Makena—”

“It’s fine, Parker,” I insist, my jaw aching from holding this stupid grin in place. “You asked me to go, so just let me go, okay? I’ll text you when I get back to the house tonight or…whenever I can get a ticket.”

“Okay,” he says, sounding as lost as I feel. “I’ll text you later. Be safe.”

I nod, somehow making it to the elevator before my hands start shaking.

I take a cab to Nana’s, throw my shit in bags through a sheen of tears, book an astronomically expensive flight for this afternoon, and practically race out to the mailbox to wait for my Uber.

I can’t stand to be inside her house—in that place where I felt so hopeful and at home—another second.

I stand there like a pill bug waiting to be stepped on until Ahmed—White Camry, 4.9 stars—arrives.

“Makena for the airport?” He catches my eye in the rearview mirror as I slide into the back seat. His gaze is warm, open, the kind that makes you want to spill your guts to a stranger.

But I need to keep my guts to myself for a while.

So, all I say is, “Yes, thanks,” before turning to stare out the window.

I’m still afraid to talk too much, afraid that if I really start sobbing, I won’t be able to stop before it’s time to board. And airlines don’t let hysterical people onto the plane; everyone knows that.

The town scrolls past—churches every three blocks, barbecue joints every two, and then nothing but open farmland and green on the way to the small regional airport.

My phone stays dark. No messages. No missed calls. But I’m not surprised. Parker’s doing battle with his father, protecting his grandmother, taking care of his family shit.

And I’m not his family.

I’m the girlfriend who said the wrong thing. Again.

I get through security and park myself near a Cinnabon, scrolling mindlessly on social media until the sickeningly sweet smell of the icing starts to make me queasy.

Then I sit by the gate, where a pair of toddlers run in circles, shrieking with happiness over some game only the two of them understand.

Eventually, they call boarding group C, and I find my seat—27F, window—and buckle in. The safety demonstration plays.

In case of an emergency, put on your own mask first before helping others.

Solid advice. Should have thought of that before I tried to play hero.

I leave switching my phone to airplane mode until the last possible moment before takeoff, but as we muscle into the air at the end of the runway, there are still no texts.

Somewhere down there, Parker’s back to living his life without me, like the past two weeks never happened. But, of course, he is. It was just two weeks. Only an idiot lets herself get this emotionally attached in two weeks.

Only fools fall this fast.

I close my eyes and let the plane carry me away from another failed attempt at finding my place, wondering if these chapters of my life are ever going to have a happy ending.

If the past is any indication of the future…

Probably not.