Chapter Ten
Ten
Scarlett
After my disaster date, I’ve had a craving for six-second hugs.
Can a hug alter your brain chemistry? Because there’s gotta be some sick voodoo going on with those hugs Kian goes around giving people.
All week I’ve tried to push Kian out of my head, but I couldn’t, not after he opened up to me about his mom and sister.
And then yesterday, some guy I didn’t know stopped me in the quad.
For a second I panicked, sure he recognized me from stumbling out of a house-party bathroom with someone.
But instead, he just asked if I knew when my friend Kian Ishida’s next party would be.
I’ve been in a great mood since then.
I walk straight to the library for my tutoring session with Kian. When I enter, a chatter I’ve never heard in the building hits my ears. The library’s supposed to be quiet, with people buried in their textbooks, half asleep over laptops, and whispering when they talk. And it is. For everyone else.
Then there’s Kian.
He’s wearing a baseball cap and some comic book panel T-shirt I’ve seen him in before.
He’s sitting at the far table near the windows, sunlight cutting across his shoulders, his foot bouncing under the desk like he’s been injected with caffeine.
His laptop’s open, but judging by the way he keeps spinning a pencil between his fingers and talking to a guy one table over, he’s not getting anything done.
“The entire crease opened up. It was a shoo-in,” Kian says.
The guy at the other table shakes his head. “Until their power play collapsed. Couldn’t capitalize to save their lives. Cost me fifty on the parlay.”
“That’s what you get for betting on their second line.”
It’s honestly impressive, the way Kian manages to look completely stress free despite being neck-deep in academic suffering. I’m still wondering why no one’s shushed them, but Kian’s become a sort of celebrity in the library so they bend the rules for him.
“Hey, Scar,” Kian says when he sees me. There’s a pink flush to his cheeks like he just got off the ice, and his hair is slightly damp.
“Why is your hair wet?” I ask him.
“I came here straight from the gym.”
It still surprises me that he went to practice this morning and then the gym later in the day. My physical activity consists of walking back and forth from the library to my dorm.
“Are we heading to your secret location?” He pulls up a bag of takeout. “I brought food.”
I snatch the bag out of his hand, keeping my voice a low whisper. “You can’t eat in here!”
Kian waves to the librarian. “Hey, Al, I’m starving. It’s okay that I brought food, right?”
Alice perks up from behind the counter. “How else would you sustain such a big, big body?”
The emphasis on the big makes me roll my eyes. I’ve known Alice for four years, and she’s made me go outside just to eat a mandarin.
“See?” Kian says, and then without a word, he follows me to my favorite study spot.
I found this private study room during freshman year. There’s a door that’s always open after hours, so I can sneak in and use the whiteboard.
Kian holds the door open for me, and when we pass through and it shuts behind us, he whistles. “Wow. This is nice.”
Sunlight flickers in through the window that looks out over campus, where orange leaves swirl past the steps of an old brick building, its windows glowing faintly against the darkening October sky. I sink onto the carpeted floor and lean against the bookshelves with my textbook in my lap.
“Is this what turns you on?”
I’m jerked out of my relaxation by Kian standing an inch away from me. “What?”
“A nice private study space? You’ve got a postorgasmic look on your face.”
“You’d have to witness me post orgasm to make that comparison,” I quip, surprised at how easily I tease him back.
“And when does that happen? When your professor tells you there’s a pop quiz?” Kian chuckles to himself, pulling a book off a shelf and flipping through the pages.
“Very funny. I have normal turn-ons like everyone,” I say. “Like begging, or crawling, or…choking.”
Kian drops the book and shakes his hand with a pained expression on his face. Rushing over to him, I take hold of his finger, noticing how just one of his could be two of mine. It’s the tiniest paper cut I’ve ever seen. It’s not even bleeding.
I blow on it anyway. “You’re fine, you big baby.”
His eyes glint. “You’re not going to kiss it better?”
A few beats hang between us before I squeeze his finger.
He yelps and jerks away, narrowing his eyes. “That could’ve caused some real damage, Scar. Then we’d end up in the ER, and I hate hospitals.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re just trying to get out of studying. Pop quiz incoming, remember? Dr. Dunn lives for those.”
With an exaggerated sigh, he drops his bag on the floor and flops into a chair. We’re only a few minutes into studying when Kian pokes me with his pen.
“You daydream a lot,” Kian says.
“How would you know?”
“I watch you.”
We both freeze.
“I mean—” He clears his throat. “You…I’ve seen you. You go somewhere in your head.”
“Just thinking,” I say as my cop-out answer. It would be weird to admit that I daydream about the what-ifs. What if I didn’t testify against Victor? What if my mom never found my stepdad?
We spend the next two hours studying, and when I read over his assignment, it’s not bad but nowhere near good enough for Dr. Dunn.
When I take out a red pen and point out the errors in his work, he groans. It’s a repeat of that for the next hour, and when I tell him that’s all the time I have, he jumps up in a haste to exit. He tosses the takeout and gathers his things as he heads toward the door.
“In an hour—”
“Read over it. I know, I know,” he says. “Same time Thursday?”
I nod, and when he leaves, I catch myself smiling. But just as quickly as he left, he comes rushing back.
“Did you forget something?” I ask.
Kian nods once and before I can ask another question his arms wrap around me.
“What—?”
“Six seconds.”
So we stand there, and his hug soothes a craving I didn’t realize had gotten so sharp.
···
“Where is it?” I mutter to myself as I rummage through my room at my parents’ house the next morning.
Spending time at the dorm and at their house means I’m bound to lose an assignment or two. I could have sworn I left the paper on my bookshelf.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I slide a finger across the screen to answer it.
“I found your assignment,” Sierra says. I jerk out from beneath my bed, smacking my head on the wooden frame.
I rub a hand over the sore spot. “Seriously? Where was it?”
“Under a candle on the one barstool we have. Terrible spot, Scar.”
“Can you leave it on my bed? I’ll grab it before my class.”
“Yup. How are your parents?”
I look in the mirror to check if there’s a bump on my head. “Living like empty nesters. I found a dumbbell in my room. My dad texted me that you’re skating really well. He’s been talking to Lidia too.”
“Oh,” she takes a long pause, clearly uncomfortable with the praise. “I’m getting there.”
“You’re there, Si. You’re chasing after something you already have.”
She snorts. “You wouldn’t say that if you saw me today.”
I’m immediately on high alert. “Why? What happened?”
Ever since we’ve been on campus, her panic attacks have been more frequent. I’ve been able to catch a few and help her through them, but I hate that I can’t always be there.
“I ran into Justin. He was being an asshole, as per usual, and it didn’t really help the panic attack I had on the ice.”
“Shit,” I mutter, feeling my gut twist. “On the ice? Damn it, I wish I was there. How about I study in the stands when you skate?”
“No.” It’s rough at first, but she clears her throat. “I just forgot to take my medication. Please don’t do that. Besides, I didn’t hurt myself. As embarrassing as it was, Donovan helped me.”
“Donovan? Like the hot, suspended hockey player that you yelled at, Donovan?”
“I can hear you smiling,” she mutters. “It was embarrassing, and I told him I’m not his responsibility.”
“So the guy helped you through a panic attack on the ice—a place he’s not allowed to be, by the way—and you basically told him to fuck off?”
“That is not what happened.”
“Sierra, I know you. I’m sure he was just being a good person. He wasn’t doing it for charity or anything.”
She only hums in acknowledgment. Then I hear the creak of our dorm door and the jingle of her keys.
“See you for dinner?” I say.
“Yes, please.” When we hang up, my stomach grumbles, already plotting the fresh eggs and overpriced avocados I know are sitting in Mom and Dad’s fridge.
As much as I hate running back and forth between the dorm and home for forgotten assignments, it’s worth it for real food.
Even if it means looking through the reused ice-cream containers only to find leftovers inside.
My phone buzzes in my pocket again, and I think it’s Sierra before I see the familiar number. My heart drops, all the way down to the basement of my ribs.
“Scarlett Hall?” the woman asks when I answer. Hearing my dad’s name tacked onto mine gives my body a strange jolt. “I’m calling regarding your visitation request for an inmate. It’s been scheduled.”
“It has?” My voice cracks on the last word.
“We have you down for the twentieth. You’ll need to review the visitor guidelines, but you’re cleared.”
For months I thought it was over, that the first voicemail was a fluke. But getting this call now makes the hope in my chest rise like it’s filled with helium.
“Okay.” I breathe. “Yes, thank you.”
The call clicks and the dial tone sounds, and for a second, I just sit there. Letting it settle. Letting my nerves twist with something that feels so close to relief. I’m barely able to contain my excitement when I hop down the stairs, the call replaying in my head.
And just like that, guilt edges in like static when I find my mom in the kitchen, her cardigan pulled tight around her and her hair still damp from her shower. My dad’s on the phone, talking about some NCAA rules.
A part of me wants to shout from the rooftops that I get to see Victor, but I keep my mouth shut. I haven’t told anyone about this. Not my parents, not Sierra, not anyone. I know what they’ll say, and I don’t want to be talked out of it. But mostly, I’m afraid of hurting my parents.
I don’t want my mom to think I’ve forgiven Victor, or for my dad to think I’m lacking something in my relationship with him.
“Hey,” I say casually, stepping past them to the fridge. “I’ll make breakfast.”
My mom blinks, surprised. “You’re here early and offering to cook? Did you hit your head?”
“Hey, now. Rosie’s a fantastic cook,” my dad interjects as he slides his phone into his pocket.
My mom chuckles. “She could give you the burnt remnants of a pan and you’d lick your fingers clean.”
“They’d be damn good too,” he says. “Go on, Rosie, make whatever you like.”
The smile on my face is flimsy, and I try hard not to think of the call.
But my excitement seeps through as I move around the kitchen.
I pull out eggs, onions, and tomatoes to make my dad’s favorite Filipino breakfast. My hands move on autopilot—scrambling, flipping, toasting—anything to stay busy, to smother the weight sitting between my ribs.
My dad turns on the radio, switching between college hockey news and some country music station. Both drag my mind to last night, namely Kian’s arms tight around me, the warmth of him bleeding through my jacket, his laugh low in my ear.
My dad watches me with curiosity from his seat across the kitchen island. I suppose the fact that I’ve been humming doesn’t help keep their gazes off me.
“Need something, Dad?” I say when I slide them both their scrambled eggs.
He perks up from behind the cup of coffee he sips. “I’m just happy to see you in such a good mood.”
My mom hums in agreement, slipping into the chair beside him to claim her plate.
I stop whisking my eggs in the bowl to narrow my gaze at them. “What? Just say what you’re thinking.”
“Who’s the boy?” My mom is first to it blurt out, and my dad mutters a quiet, “So I can kill him.”
I stare in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“Well, we’ve seen you happy when you do well in school, or when you’ve had a good day with Sierra, but never quite like this. So we suspect it’s a boy.”
Try a grown man. An inmate. My biological father.
“You’re saying it like I’m in middle school. I’m twenty-one, not twelve.” I blow out a breath. “And there’s no boy. I’m just having a good study week.”
“Whatever you say, Rosie. But I know those boys at Dalton, so if you need me to vet them, I will.”
I hold back from rolling my eyes. “You don’t know ‘the Dalton boys,’ Dad. You know the hockey players.”
He huffs. “And you stay away from the hockey players. You know what I say—”
“They play the game, and the women.”
He nods.
“Aren’t your players in healthy relationships? Summer Preston is like the golden girl on campus, and she loves her hockey player boyfriend.”
“Crawford is different.”
“Westbrook?” I raise a brow, knowing that one of the guys who graduated and went to the NHL had some controversy before a ballerina started dating him. They’re everyone’s celebrity crush. I don’t know too much about my dad’s players, but I haven’t heard anything inherently bad about them.
“Your dad’s just being protective, anak. But be careful. Athletes aren’t a good call,” my mom says, keeping her eyes on her toast. Hearing her say it makes it so much worse.
But I nod anyway.