Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
practice makes trouble
SOREN
The morning dragged itself forward like it had weights tied to its ankles, and I moved through it on autopilot because that was the only speed available to me right now.
My head was a dull, persistent throb sitting just behind my eyes, my mouth tasted like bad decisions, and the kitchen light was doing me no favors.
I was already at the stove when Talia emerged, dressed for work and looking far more put together than anyone had a right to at this hour.
She took one look at me and didn't even bother with good morning.
“How much did you drink last night?”
“A normal amount.”
“You look green.”
“I'm fine.” I grabbed eggs from the fridge and immediately regretted moving that fast. “Coffee's ready.”
She poured herself a cup and leaned against the counter with the particular stillness she got when she was deciding how hard to push something. “You're making breakfast with a hangover.”
“I'm making breakfast because Micah has that early class he's been stressing about and Poppy has a test.” I cracked an egg into the bowl and kept my eyes on it. “You going to help or just stand there documenting my suffering?”
“Both.” She set her mug down and pulled the bread out. “How many?”
“All of us.”
She started on the toast without another word about it, which was as much grace as Talia ever extended, and I was grateful enough that I didn't push my luck. “Micah!” she called toward the hallway. “Get your ass up! Breakfast in ten!”
A muffled groan came from somewhere deeper in the apartment, followed by what sounded like Micah rolling directly onto the floor.
“Poppy!” Talia called, louder. “You alive?”
“No!” came the response. “Dead! Leave me alone!”
“Dead people don't have history tests!” I shouted back, and immediately regretted the volume. “Get up or I'm eating your portion!”
“You wouldn't dare!”
“Try me!”
Talia snorted and grabbed plates from the cabinet. “You know she's just going to show up looking like a disaster and steal all the bacon anyway.”
“There's no bacon. We're out.”
“Soren.” She turned to look at me with genuine offense. “How do you make breakfast without bacon? That's like making coffee without caffeine. It's unnatural.”
“We're broke until Friday. Bacon's a luxury item.”
“Bacon is a necessity. I'm adding it to the grocery list.” She started setting the table with more force than required. “And you're not paying for everything this week. I'm covering groceries.”
“Tal—”
“Don't argue with me. I have money. Let me buy the fucking bacon.”
Micah stumbled into the kitchen looking like he'd been electrocuted, hair sticking up in every direction and eyes half-closed. “Why are we yelling about bacon at this ungodly hour?”
“Because your brother is a monster who tried to make breakfast without it,” Talia said, shoving a mug of coffee into his hands.
“That is monstrous.” Micah took a sip and made a face. “This coffee tastes like despair.”
“That's because it's cheap,” I said, dividing the eggs onto plates. “Drink it anyway. You need the caffeine for that group project you won't shut up about.”
“I hate my group. They're all idiots.” He sat down at the table and immediately face-planted onto his folded arms. “I'm doing all the work and they're getting the same grade. It's a goddamn travesty.”
“Welcome to college.” Talia set toast in front of him. “It doesn't get better.”
“You're so comforting. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“Frequently.” She sat down with her own plate and pointed her fork at him. “Eat. You're not skipping breakfast just because you're having an existential crisis about group work.”
Poppy finally emerged, still in her pajamas with her hair in a messy bun that looked like it had been constructed by someone who'd given up halfway through. She shuffled to the table and collapsed into a chair without saying anything.
“Morning, Pops,” I said, setting a plate in front of her. “Sleep well?”
She made a noise that might have been words in some language I didn't speak.
“She's not human before nine,” Micah translated helpfully. “Give her ten minutes and food. She'll come back to life eventually.”
“I'm right here,” Poppy muttered, picking up her fork. “I can hear you talking about me like I'm a feral animal.”
“If the shoe fits.” Talia grinned at her. “How's the history test prep going?”
“It's going. I know enough not to fail spectacularly.” Poppy took a bite of eggs and seemed to wake up slightly. “Mr. Henderson is obsessed with dates. Like, pathologically obsessed. Who cares what exact day the treaty was signed? It was 1783, that should be close enough.”
“That's not how history works,” Micah said.
“That's exactly how history works. We're talking about events from hundreds of years ago. Nobody alive was there. The dates are made up.”
“The dates are not made up, Poppy. That's literally the opposite of history.”
“You're both wrong,” Talia cut in. “History is just propaganda that got written down by whoever won. The dates are real, but the narrative is bullshit.”
I listened to them argue about the nature of historical fact while I ate my eggs, and despite the heaviness sitting on my chest, I felt the corners of my mouth pull up.
This was good. This chaos, this warmth, this ridiculous bickering that meant they were all here and safe and alive.
This was what I'd fought for when everything had fallen apart.
“Soren's smiling,” Poppy announced suddenly. “That's suspicious. What are you planning?”
“I'm not planning anything. I'm enjoying my family.”
“Lies. You only smile like that when you're about to do something annoying.” She pointed her fork at me accusingly. “Are you going to make us clean today? Is that what this is?”
“The apartment's a disaster,” Talia said. “We should probably clean.”
“Traitor!” Poppy looked betrayed. “You're supposed to be on my side!”
“I'm on the side of not living in filth like raccoons.”
“Raccoons are adorable and we should aspire to their lifestyle.”
Micah laughed so hard he nearly choked on his coffee. “Poppy, that's the worst argument I've ever heard.”
“Your face is the worst argument you've ever heard.”
“That doesn't even make sense!”
“You don't make sense!”
I let them dissolve into chaos, trading insults that had no real heat behind them, and tried to hold onto this moment instead of thinking about everything else. Talia caught my eye across the table and gave me a look that said she knew exactly what I was doing.
They finished eating, Micah still complaining about his group project, Poppy still half-asleep despite the food, and Talia organizing everyone's day with the efficiency of a general commanding troops.
Backpacks were grabbed, lunches were packed, Poppy was reminded about her textbook three times before she went to get it.
“Love you guys,” Micah called as he headed out the door first, already late for his class.
“Love you more!” Poppy shouted after him, then turned to me. “You good today?”
“Yeah, Pops. I'm good.”
She studied me for a second with eyes that were way too perceptive for someone who claimed to be barely conscious before nine. Then she nodded, apparently satisfied, and followed Micah out the door.
Talia lingered, grabbing her bag but not leaving yet. She waited until we heard the front door close before she turned to look at me.
“You doing okay?” she asked quietly.
“I'm tired,” I admitted, because lying to Talia had never worked anyway. “But I'm managing.”
“The drinking—”
“I know. I'll be more careful.”
She sighed, and I could see her weighing whether to push harder or let it go for now. “Rook seems like he's good for you. Don't fuck it up by pushing him away.”
“I'm trying not to.”
“Try harder.” She headed for the door but stopped before leaving. “And Soren? You don't have to carry everything alone. I'm here. We're partners in this mess, remember?”
She left before I could respond, and I stood there in the quiet kitchen surrounded by dirty dishes and half-empty coffee mugs, feeling the weight settle back onto my chest now that I didn't have to perform being okay anymore.
By the time the house emptied out and went quiet, and I was already exhausted.
I sat on the couch with my phone in my hand, staring at the screen without actually seeing it.
The club kept replaying in my head in fragments I couldn't quite piece together into a full picture.
Dancing with Rook. His hands on my waist. The jealousy in his eyes when other guys tried to talk to me. And then—fuck—the kiss. I'd kissed him.
The shame hit me in waves. Not because I'd kissed him, exactly, but because I'd been drunk enough to cross a line I'd been trying so hard not to cross.
Rook was helping me out of kindness and old friendship, and I'd gone and made it weird by letting my filters drop and my want show through.
I needed to apologize. But the thought of having that conversation made my chest tighten with anxiety.
I needed to get out of the house. Needed to move, to do anything other than sit here and let the heaviness pull me under.
The Wolves had an exhibition game this afternoon, and I knew without checking that Rook would be there.
I could go watch. Stay in the background, not make it weird, just see him play and remind myself of all the reasons I needed to keep my shit together.
The decision made itself before I'd fully thought it through, and I was already grabbing my jacket and heading for the door.
The arena was exactly what I'd expected from the largest venue in the city — all steel and glass and the particular hum of a building that had hosted decades of hockey and knew it.
I bought a ticket from the box office and made my way inside, climbing the stairs to the upper sections where I could watch without being spotted.