Chapter 9
NINE
HAVEN
“Still drinking that shit, I see,” Dallas utters when I crack open my can of Dr Pepper. “Careful, the librarian will come over here and yell at you.”
“The librarian loves me,” I coo, taking a sip and sighing. “And it’s not crap. It’s the best soda ever to be invented.”
“It’s ranked one of the worst for your body,” he says, matter-of-factly.
“Yeah, well, I don’t think whatever alcohol you were pouring down your throat the other night was that great for you either, QB.
” I look at him, lifting a brow. “Not to mention, I know a man who would whoop your ass if he found out that you were getting drunk the night before a practice during a week you have a game.”
“Practice wasn’t till afternoon,” he tosses back. “And the game isn’t until Friday.”
“Yeah, see, I don’t think your coach would care about either of those things.” I wave my hand toward his computer. “All right, let me see what you’ve got.”
I read through his work, occasionally changing a letter that I know he meant to be something else.
Eventually, I am going to bring it up to him that I think he could qualify for some accommodations, but not yet.
He’s far too self-conscious about himself, and right now, I want to build trust in this tutor-student relationship.
Sure, we’ve known each other for years, but this is different.
This takes something I don’t usually have: patience and grace.
Sliding the laptop back over to him, I nod. “That looks great. I think you really understood the assignment. You should be proud.”
“Right,” he utters, and it’s almost as if he doesn’t believe me. His eyes narrow as he gazes from me to the screen.
“Dallas, I’m serious,” I say, and knowing I hit save when I just checked his work, I gently push it closed. “It really is great work,” I promise him, meaning it. “You did good. And we’re done for today.”
Is it a piece of work that’s going to be published for some huge award—no. Probably not. But it’s work that is going to earn him a solid grade, and that’s what’s important.
It takes a moment, but finally, his lips curve up the slightest bit into a small smile.
Something I’ve come to realize about Dallas is that he hardly ever smiles any bigger than this right here.
For as long as I’ve known him, that’s been the case.
But I guess when you’ve been through as much pain as he had before Memphis and Lane adopted him, anyone would have a hard time smiling.
Shoving some things into my extremely large and over-the-top Bogg bag, I grin. “I think you earned yourself a treat, QB.”
Shock crosses his face, and I roll my eyes. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not trying to hit on you.” Standing up, I jerk my chin toward the door. “Come on. Ben’s Ice Cream Shack is still open for another few days. Let’s go.”
“You realize your dad may actually kill me if he finds out I ate ice cream before practice, right?” he says, unmoving from his chair.
“Well then,” I say with a shrug, “suit yourself. I’ll go alone.
Maybe I’ll even get Moose Tracks.” I add the last part in, knowing the vanilla ice cream with fudge swirls and tiny peanut butter cups is his favorite.
And as I’m walking toward the exit, I don’t even make it halfway across the room before he’s beside me.
“I guess what he doesn’t know … can’t hurt him?” he says, almost smirking.
“My thoughts exactly.” I nod. “Oh, but you’re driving. I walked here.”
“That’s fine,” he says softly. “By the way, nice job baiting me to come by mentioning my favorite ice cream, but are you forgetting that I know you hate peanut butter?” He chuckles. “We both know you’re going to get cookie dough.”
I try to ignore the way my heart flutters when he mentions that I hate peanut butter and that he knows my favorite flavor ice cream. Why wouldn’t he? He probably knows my entire family’s order, the way I do his. But still, it just feels … different.
Even through the flutters, right now, being playful with him and spending time together almost feels like it did back years ago before he went and screwed everything up by kissing me. Before that kiss, I had gotten really good at shoving my feelings for him down. After that, it was torture.
But today gives me hope. Hope that maybe—just maybe—we could be friends again one day.