Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
EVE
“ W hat about this top?” Rylan asks, spinning around with her arms out so we can see the shirt she’s modeling from every angle.
Harlow tilts her head, considering. “Yeah, I like the green better.”
“Eve?”
I set down the tube of concealer I was using to cover the dark circles under my eyes. I never fell back asleep after Dickgate, and it turns out pretending to be unconscious while actually being awake is extra exhausting.
I twist around, glancing at the maroon one-shouldered top on the bed, then at the satin halter shirt Rylan’s holding up to the jeans she’s wearing. A shade of green I’d call…hunter.
“Green,” I say.
Rylan nods. “A consensus. Love it.”
“Your clothes are so cute,” Harlow says, twisting another section of her hair around the barrel of the curling iron. “Now I feel like I have nothing to wear tonight.”
“You can borrow whatever,” Rylan offers, nodding toward her oversized, overflowing suitcase.
“Except you wear fun colors, and fun colors make me look like I’m wearing a traffic cone on my head.”
I snort a laugh. “Harlow.”
“It’s true!” She sets down the curling iron, grabs the top, and holds it up. “See?!”
The maroon lace does clash with her red hair. But it doesn’t make it look orange .
“Go naked,” I suggest.
“Helpful, Eve, thanks.” She twists another section of hair, then smirks. “I’ll leave that to Hunter.”
“Um, hello ? What did I miss?” Rylan glances back and forth between us. “When was Hunter naked?”
“It’s a long story,” I say.
“Eve walked in on Hunter in the shower last night,” Harlow supplies.
“Okay, it’s not that long of a story,” I amend. “But it’s one I would prefer to stop talking about. I almost died of mortification. Multiple times.”
My traitorous best friend just laughs.
Rylan looks confused. “Why would you be embarrassed?”
“Because I didn’t knock, and it was my fault I couldn’t tell he wasn’t in bed because of the pillow wall, and we don’t really know each other, and I…” I shake my head and pick up my concealer again. “Just a weird part of the trip.”
Rylan looks even more confused. “Pillow wall?”
“Eve’s a restless sleeper,” Harlow explains. “If it makes you feel any better, Hunter was worried he made you uncomfortable.”
“Make me feel better ?” I exclaim. “Harlow, that makes me feel worse !”
“ Relax . I told him you enjoyed the show.”
Now Rylan is laughing. Glad I could provide some pre-game amusement.
Actually, I’m not glad. I’d like to go back to pretending Dickgate never happened.
“You’d better not have,” I threaten.
For all her teasing, I don’t think Harlow would be that bold on my behalf. She has no idea I like Hunter, and she knows I’m in a weird place right now.
I wish I was the girl who thought to say I enjoyed the show after accidentally seeing a hot guy naked. But no, I’m the girl who hid in the bathroom and then compared him to a Michelangelo sculpture. It was supposed to be a compliment, but I don’t think it came out that way.
A loud bang rattles the door hinges, making the mirror I was using to apply my makeup bounce.
“Was the sign really necessary?” Aidan calls from the hallway.
Harlow and Rylan dissolve into giggles. They taped a No Boys Allowed sign on my bedroom door when we came upstairs to get ready to go out to a local bar. The boys were so busy watching hockey they didn’t even notice Harlow writing on the piece of paper she found in one of the kitchen drawers. They had me sketch a hockey player at the bottom, and Rylan’s contribution was drawing a red X over him.
I actually did a pretty good job of recreating Holt’s jersey, if I do say so myself. Athletes aren’t my usual subject matter.
“Go away, Aidan!” Rylan shouts back. “We’re busy!”
There’s a loud sigh on the other side of the door.
“Hayes, how much longer?” Conor’s voice this time. “Do we have time to make nachos before the second period?”
“No nachos!” Harlow answers. “We’ll be down in five minutes.”
“We should have just made them,” I hear Aidan grumble. “Forgiveness over permission and all that.”
“They’ll have food at the bar,” Conor replies.
Receding footsteps sound, and their voices fade. I don’t hear Hunter’s. He must have stayed downstairs, in the living room/his bedroom. I still feel guilty about stealing his bed. I should have asked more questions about the rental the night I agreed to go, but I wasn’t exactly thinking straight between the vodka and the breakup. It feels like I’ve inconvenienced Hunter a lot this trip, and being indebted to someone you want to impress is not a great feeling.
I finish my makeup, then stand and stretch. My muscles are stiff from sitting most of yesterday and today. I should have gone for a walk before showering.
Harlow wolf whistles as I drop my makeup bag on top of the dresser. “Damn, Eve. The surfer guys will be all over you.”
“If you say so,” I reply doubtfully.
Harlow keeps insisting there’s a large population of eligible bachelors in this town, but I have my doubts. It’s not like we’re spring breaking in Cancun with two hundred other colleges.
“No, it’s true,” Rylan tells me. “There were tons of cute guys when we went to the grocery store this morning. And a bunch of them said they’d be at Sand Bar tonight.”
“Assuming Aidan didn’t scare them all off,” Harlow adds, smirking. She glances at me. “He got a little, uh, possessive earlier.”
Rylan rolls her eyes. “He’s so dramatic.”
But she’s smiling as she says it, a soft, secret one that reminds me I’m no longer a member of the happily in love club. One that makes me question whether I was ever a member of that club, because I don’t think that’s an expression I’ve ever worn.
“It was sweet,” Harlow states. “He’s crazy about you.”
Rylan tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. “He told me he loved me,” she says shyly.
“Really?” Harlow squeals.
Rylan nods. “Yeah. When we were at my parents’ for dinner last weekend. I was a little worried he was going to bolt after dinner with my dad. And he’s so unserious most of the time, I wasn’t expecting him to say it that soon. Or like, at all.” She laughs. “Caught me totally off guard.”
“Conor told me at SeaTac’s baggage claim,” Harlow says, smiling. “I had a coffee stain on my shirt and hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours. I thought I was hallucinating when I first saw him.” She smiles. “It was the best moment of my life.”
“Well, you guys sure are making single life sound fantastic ,” I comment, spritzing my wrists with my favorite perfume.
Harlow walks up behind me and wraps her arms around my shoulders. “You’re going to find your right guy, E.”
I pat her arm. “I know. I’m kidding.”
Sort of.
Harlow didn’t love Ben. She liked him, but my best friend and my ex-boyfriend never moved past the friendly politeness stage that normally passes after you’ve known someone for more than a few weeks. I tried to force it—setting Harlow up with some of Ben’s friends so we would all hang out together. Those double dates involved awkward pauses and no gains of common ground, so I gave up. And then Harlow started dating Conor, and they fit . And, despite my assumption that most athletes at Holt are insensitive playboys, he’s a genuinely nice guy. Not just to Harlow, but welcoming to me too. I’m not sure what Ben’s reaction would have been if I’d asked if Harlow could tag along on a trip he’d planned with his friends, and I hate that I’m unsure.
“Don’t forget about the list,” she whispers before letting me go.
Very unlikely. About the same chance as me actually completing the list.
“We should wingwomen Hunter too,” Rylan comments, pulling her dark hair back into a ponytail. “I’m surprised he’s not dating anyone.”
I move my perfume bottle two inches to the right, just to look busy. “I think he is,” I say, in what is hopefully a casual way.
“What?” Harlow says. “Who?”
“Holly Johnson. They were at La Bella Napoli the night Ben and I broke up.”
“Oh.” Harlow’s curiosity has shifted to sympathy.
I shouldn’t have added that last part.
“Who is Holly Johnson?” Rylan asks.
“She’s a sorority girl,” I answer.
Harlow makes a rawr noise as she shuts off and unplugs the curling iron.
“She is ,” I say, a little defensively. “I had a seminar with her freshman year, and Phi Beta Whatever was all she talked about. Stuck in my head, is all.”
“I wouldn’t have guessed that was Hunter’s type,” Rylan muses. “He’s not exactly Mr. Social.”
“He just takes a little longer to warm up to people,” Harlow says. “I was convinced he hated me when Conor and I first started hanging out. But I think it was more his way of looking out for his friend.”
I’m glad Harlow is defending Hunter. But I’m also weirdly…bothered by the realization my best friend knows him better than I do.
Rylan extracting a bottle of vodka from her giant suitcase is a welcome distraction from the strange reaction. She pulls shot glasses out next, neatly stacked and packed in a plastic bag.
“Wow, you came prepared,” Harlow comments.
Rylan smiles as she carefully pours out three shots. She passes a blue glass to Harlow, a green one to me, and keeps the pink for herself.
We tap them all together, then down them in unison.
It’s expensive vodka, the kind that doesn’t taste like rubbing alcohol. It burns when it hits my stomach, warm numbness spreading a few seconds later.
“Let’s go, ladies!” Harlow cheers, then heads for the door.
I pat my pockets to make sure I have my phone, and then follow.
“How long has it been since they came upstairs?” Rylan asks as we walk down the empty hallway toward the stairs.
“Ten minutes?” Harlow guesses.
It’s been at least fifteen, but I don’t point that out. I’m guessing Aidan will.
The sound of sports commentary is audible before we hit the first step, but the guys are gathered by the front door, not in front of the television. Aidan is tossing pieces of popcorn in his mouth, while Conor is sipping from a water bottle.
I focus on Hunter. He’s showered and changed since I went upstairs to get ready. His hair is still damp, the dirty-blond shade slightly darker than usual. He’s wearing jeans and a gray Henley that looks like it’s constructed from the softest cotton in the world. Standing and typing on his phone, with a worried wrinkle creasing his forehead.
I linger on the last step, letting Rylan and Harlow go ahead to greet their boyfriends.
Aidan’s loud joking about how long we took to get ready distracts Hunter from his phone. He shakes his head at the foursome gathered by the door before glancing at me.
And I freeze like I was caught doing something wrong beneath a bright spotlight.
Up until the recent overlap in our social spheres, my glimpses of Hunter have all been around campus. We’ve never interacted in this context—the flirty outfit and vodka shots kind of atmosphere. The closest was the school-sponsored event where we first met.
I can’t tell what Hunter is thinking. If he’s even noticed that the top I’m wearing is held together by four bows, exposing the center strip of my chest. This is undoubtedly the sexiest I’ve ever looked in front of him—I dressed this way with him in mind—and I’m…deflated that he doesn’t appear to register any difference.
A gust of colder air alerts me to Rylan and Aidan’s exit.
Conor is halfway out the door. “Dude. Come on.”
Hunter drops the foot he had propped against the wall. Tucks his phone into his pocket. “Yeah. Ready,” he says gruffly.
It’s not until he moves toward the door that I register how motionless he was before. Maybe he was a little affected? Guys have always praised my big boobs, and they’re the star of my outfit tonight.
“Eve!”
Harlow holds out her right hand—her left one is clasped with Conor’s. As soon as I take it, she pulls me out the door with them. Conor pauses to lock the house, and then we follow Hunter to his car. The boys must have made a plan while we were getting ready, because Conor heads for the driver’s seat and Hunter climbs into the passenger side without any discussion of the seating arrangements. Aidan dives into the back seat, pulling Rylan in behind him.
“This should be interesting,” Harlow whispers to me, then climbs in next.
I end up with most of the seat behind Hunter. My right hip is pressed tight against the door to accommodate for the four people wedged across the back, but it’s not that uncomfortable. The heady feeling of belonging eclipses any discomfort. I don’t feel like an outsider as I stare at one of the strands of blond hair that curls against the back of Hunter’s neck.
“You guys good back there?” Conor asks as we start rolling down the driveway.
“Living the dream, man,” Aidan answers easily. “I’m surrounded by hot girls. Wanna sit on my lap for the ride back, Hayes?”
Conor hits the brakes.
Aidan—the only one not wearing a seat belt—flies into the back of Conor’s seat. His hand hits the headrest a second before his nose.
“I was kidding , Hart. Jesus. I prefer brunettes.” He nuzzles Rylan’s neck.
“Right,” Rylan drawls. “ That’s why the blonde who works in the campus coffee shop always gives you free drinks.”
“I think she’s just a really big hockey fan,” Aidan says. “Right, Morgan?”
“I never got the impression your discounted lattes had anything to do with your subpar slap shot, Phillips,” Hunter replies.
Conor laughs.
“Have fun sleeping on the floor tonight, Aidan,” Harlow teases.
I’m smiling wide, which I don’t realize until my cheeks start to ache a little. I’ve spent a decent amount of time around Conor, mostly because he spends a decent amount of time at my and Harlow’s place. But the dynamic with his teammates—and Rylan—is new to me. In my experience, it’s not that common to encounter friends who act like family. Aside from Harlow, my closest friend at Holt is Mary, and even with her there are times when I’m unsure what to say.
“Rylan would never make me sleep on the floor,” Aidan retorts. “Because then I couldn’t lick her?—”
Rylan slaps a hand over his mouth. When it falls away, Aidan is grinning wide. Rylan doesn’t manage to keep the smile off her face either.
Hunter clears his throat loudly. “Phillips. We talked about fucking boundaries, remember?”
“Sorry, man. I forgot you’re not getting laid.”
“And I forgot nothing sticks in your brain unless it’s about sex.”
“Not true! Hockey sticks too. Get it? Hockey sticks. Speaking of, the second period has probably started.” Aidan digs his phone out of his pocket. The background is a cute photo of Rylan wearing a pink pom-pom hat. “Fuck. Halifax scored.”
“Told you he would,” Conor says.
That kicks off a hockey conversation full of unfamiliar names and terms that I quickly tune out. Harlow’s texting her friend Landon. Rylan is snuggled against Aidan’s chest while he draws circles on her knee with his free hand.
And I’m overanalyzing Aidan’s comment about Hunter. Does that mean he’s not dating Holly?
Ten minutes later, Conor pulls into a surprisingly full parking lot. I was sort of expecting a small building with a neon beer light, but this place looks bigger and busier than Gaffney’s.
We’re almost to the entrance of Sand Bar when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
I pull it out, and the excitement I was experiencing immediately fizzles into uneasiness.
“Go ahead,” I urge Harlow, who’s walking closest to me. “I’ll be right in.”
“Okay,” she replies, then follows everyone else inside the bar.
I veer left, take a seat on a metal bench by some bushes, pull in a deep breath, and answer the call. “Hey, Dad.”
“Hi, Eve.”
An awkward pause ensues. We have a schedule for speaking—once a month, and always on a Tuesday at eight p.m. Since this is not a Tuesday and it’s past eight, something is going on. And, knowing my dad, it’s not likely to be anything good.
I clear my throat and remind him: “You called me.”
“Oh, right. I just—just got home from Noah’s baseball practice, and thought I’d give you a call.”
My dad coaches the team. Maybe his rejection of parenthood—of me—would sting a little less if he wasn’t such an involved father with his other kids. I always feel like a shitty person for thinking that—for resenting my half-siblings for their happy childhood. But emotions are rarely logical.
“How did practice go?” I ask, acting interested to alleviate a little of my own guilt.
I always ask about my half-siblings. Because it gives us something to talk about and because a petty part of me likes being the bigger person. Let’s talk about the kids you didn’t abandon!
“Great. Joanna found an indoor batting place in Phoenix, so we hit that a bunch this past winter. He’ll be the star of the team this season.”
“That’s exciting.”
Another beat of silence lingers.
“I just wanted to let you know…I’m not sure whether graduation will work out.”
Not sure . After years of half-assed excuses from my father, which, pathetically, were an upgrade from his prior efforts to pretend I never existed, I’m fluent in what his hedging means.
He’s not coming.
My response is a quiet “Oh.”
My first test of being a braver, bolder, better version of myself is a complete failure.
“It’s just a bad weekend for us,” my father continues. “Noah has a baseball game and Lily started gymnastics, plus she’s got a birthday party that Saturday. We’re short-staffed at the station and they really need me on call.”
I’m silent. I shouldn’t be surprised, considering he’s never made much of an effort to show up before. Somerville isn’t exactly a short trip from Phoenix.
But I am surprised. It never occurred to me that my father might skip my college graduation. I thought our monthly phone call schedule meant something—was adding up to something—and that he finally cared about having some semblance of a relationship with me. He made the ten-minute drive to my high school graduation with his new wife and new baby.
I could look at a calendar and count exactly how many conversations we’ve had since that June. Just like I looked at a calendar and added up the amount of months I spent with Ben.
I was wrong about my dad caring. Just like I was wrong about Ben.
My dad’s still talking. He sounds more cheerful than when I first answered, like telling me was an unpleasant task he’s taken care of. “We’ll throw a big party when you’re back home,” he’s saying. “You can wear your cap and gown—recreate the big moment.”
“Okay.”
I want to say something else. I want to tell him that it’s not okay. That I’m hurt and upset and angry. But those chaotic emotions have coalesced into a giant lump in my throat, blocking full sentences from coming out.
“Great. We can hammer out some details when we talk next. Tuesday, week after next, right?” He sounds proud, like I should be impressed he remembered the one day a month he’s scheduled to check in with me.
I hate that he considers it an accomplishment. I hate myself, for allowing him to think it is one. For accepting the scraps of affection he tosses my way rather than throwing them back in his face and demanding more.
Because I’m scared more will revert into nothing.
“How is Ben?”
There’s some twisted irony to the fact that my dad rarely asks about Ben but chooses this call to do so. He met Ben once, when he visited me in Chandler sophomore year, mostly quizzing him on New England sports teams Ben doesn’t follow. Neither was that impressed by the other’s contributions to the conversation.
“We broke up,” I state flatly.
“ Dad! Dad! You said we could take Bella for a walk ” is what interrupts the noticeable pause of my father having no idea what to say. Usually, on the rare occasions he comes up, Ben is a safe topic.
“One sec, sweetheart.” My dad’s voice is a little muffled now, like he covered the phone with his hand.
Still, I hear Lily’s next words loud and clear. “But Mom said dinner is almost ready. If we don’t go now, then we won’t have time before dinner and then it will be dark and then it will be bedtime and then?—”
My dad folds like a cheap tent. “Okay, okay. Go put on your shoes and get Bella’s leash.”
A few seconds later, his voice returns to normal. “I’m sorry, Eve, but I’ve got to go. We’ll talk Tuesday. Have fun in your classes this week.”
I’m not surprised he forgot this is my spring break week.
But it does hit like another slap to the face. Another one I let land.