20. Booker
Booker
For the love of everything that is holy, I’m going to go on this trip to Denver and forget about Maya freaking Winchester.
Why did I give her a ride home?
Why did I sit by her at dinner?
Why did I fuck her in the locker room?
Because I’m a stupid masochist who can’t seem to quit giving in.
Over and over and over again, I replay Drew’s words from the bus in my head. Why the fuck would you ever let her walk away?
In the span of a few months, all of my willpower—my resolve to stay away—has unraveled into a threadbare sheet barely able to separate my past from my present.
If I’m honest with myself, the things I said to her last weekend about stress weren’t one hundred percent true. I do feel some reprieve from my anxieties…when I’m spending time with her.
But then that voice in the back of my head comes back tenfold—saying I’m letting my mom down.
I know it’s unreasonable. I know it’s a trauma response. But I don’t know how to stop it.
Walking around my room, I finish grabbing all of the last minute things I need to pack, and then I walk across the hall to make sure Drew’s ready to go.
Knocking on his door, I holler, “Downstairs in ten, Drewski!”
He’s got music playing, but I know he hears me when he shouts a sarcastic “Yes, Mother!” back at me.
The car ride to the Warrens’ house is uneventful. Colt smiles as we enter the kitchen, and I’ll be damned if a wave of relief doesn’t wash over me. Deep down, I wasn’t sure the guy was ever going to be the same, but he looks good today, more himself.
Maybe things can get back to normal soon.
The first few days of vacation are perfect, just what I needed to decompress. We snowboard, we nap, we drink.
On the third night, Colt and Stella opt to stay in while Drew, Beau, and I go to the club in the resort.
Beau and I are reclining at one of the low lounge tables, watching the crowd on the dance floor while Drew talks with a group of strangers at the bar.
We chat quietly for a bit before a beautiful leggy brunette saunters up and cuddles up next to Beau with a hand on his thigh. I wait for him to stand up and take off with her, but I’m surprised when he stays put on the sofa, politely declining whatever it is she offered.
When she walks away, I raise an eyebrow at him. “Not in the mood?” I ask, sipping my whiskey.
He shrugs, polishing off the rest of his drink. “Guess not.”
“Hung up on a certain red-head?” I continue, goading him. I shouldn’t pick on the guy for his commitment issues—we’re definitely a pot, meet kettle situation.
Setting his glass on the table, he leans his elbows on his knees and looks around, as if speaking of Dani—the girl he was sleeping with on this trip last year—is going to cause her to spawn into the crowd.
“Look, I fucked up leading her on last year. Not making that mistake twice, okay?”
“Did you really lead her on if you told her it was over when vacation ended?”
“I mean, I knew she was…attached. I could’ve quit going back all week. That’s on me.” He stares off, contemplating his past decisions, but not exactly looking regretful.
I take another sip of my drink, unsure how far to push. “There’s nothing wrong with genuinely enjoying someone’s company, B. If you liked hanging out with her then you liked hanging out with her. I don’t see why that’s an issue.”
He runs a hand through his shaggy hair, leaning back. “Yeah, but that’s just not my thing, I guess. I don’t do repeats. Or attachment.”
I shrug and back off, knowing he’s going to get pissy if I keep questioning him.
Just then, Drew comes up with a handful of shots and his group of new friends. The strangers arrange themselves around the sofas as Drew hands me and Beau each a shot glass.
“Bottoms up, boys,” he encourages before tossing it back. Beau does the same, looking grateful for the liquor.
I take my shot as well, less enthusiastically, watching as Drew is dragged off to the dance floor by two of the girls who followed him over here.
I begin talking to one of the guys—I didn’t catch his name—about NFL stats while Beau starts chatting up and, eventually, making out with one of the other girls in the group.
So much for not being in the mood.
By two in the morning, I’m stumbling out of the club with an arm supporting Beau. Drew left with one of the girls—hell, maybe both of them—leaving me to get the big man home alone. Not that Drunk Drew would’ve been much help, anyway.
I call a car and eventually make it back to the cabin, where I deposit Beau onto his bed and collapse onto mine, my head spinning uncomfortably.
I pull out my phone, and without really thinking, pull up Maya’s contact.
All night tonight, I tried to talk myself into dancing with someone, kissing someone, anything to get the memory of the coach’s daughter clenching around my cock out of my head.
But every time a woman approached me, I turned them away. Every time. I couldn’t do it—it felt adulterous, which was absurd since I’m the one keeping Maya at arm’s length.
I stare at her name on my screen, knowing it would be a horrible idea to drunk text or call her this late.
With incredible willpower, I shut off my phone, laying it on the nightstand and forcing myself to go to sleep—telling myself that the only way I’ll be touching Maya Winchester again is in my dreams.
When we get home from the trip, everyone heads their separate ways for the holidays, and I have the house to myself. I’m grateful my father decided to extend his tour so I don’t have to go back to LA and spend more time with him.
I’m standing in line at the coffee shop on campus when a soft “Hey” has me turning my head over my shoulder.
Maya stands behind me in a colorful sweater, her curls tied up in a bun on top of her head, and her adorable freckles on full display. My heart speeds up as her brown eyes crinkle at the corners, smiling at me.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, stepping up beside me.
Shoving my hands in my jacket pockets, I reply, “You know…coffee.”
She smirks, not thrown by my neanderthal sentence structure. “I meant here as in at school. You didn’t want to go back to Cali for Christmas?”
“No, my dad is actually still on tour, so…” I trail off, not wanting to say that I’ll be alone for Christmas. I’ve been alone for for most major holidays, unless Ross needs new press.
Maya doesn’t miss the cue, though, knowing what she does about my past. “You’re going to be by yourself? Jamie, that’s so sad.”
Her pity makes my skin itch, and I shrug.
The cashier calls for the next person in line and I’m grateful for a moment away from the conversation. I order myself a latte and look over at Maya expectantly.
“Oh, no, you don’t have to get mine,” she says, flustered and waving her hands.
“Maya, just order. You’re holding up the line,” I tease with a smirk. “I can afford to buy you a coffee.”
She relents and orders a caramel macchiato. Once I’ve paid and we step off to the side to wait for our drinks, she circles back to our original conversation.
“Jamie, you can’t spend Christmas by yourself,” she insists.
I shrug again. “It really doesn’t bother me. It’s not the first time and probably won’t be the last.”
Her brows furrow and the corners of her lips turn down. “You don’t have grandparents?”
I shake my head. “No. Mom’s family disowned her when she got pregnant outside of marriage; that’s why they weren’t at the funeral.” Maya nods as if she vaguely remembers the small crowd of people all those years ago and how we three were the only ones in the front row of chairs.
“And I’ve never met my dad’s family, if he even has any. He’s never talked about them or brought them around.”
I hate the look in her eyes, the sadness on my behalf. “I’m sorry.” She’s quiet for a minute, the wheels in her head turning. “You should come to our house. You could spend Christmas morning with me and Dad.”
Her offer doesn’t surprise me—I expected it as soon as she realized I’d be spending the holiday alone. But my stomach turns over at the image of sitting in the same living room from my childhood, watching Tom and Maya open gifts, and my mom not being there.
In another universe, the four of us would’ve spent the last fifteen years doing just that—laughing, cooking, opening gifts.
Maya must see the grief on my face because she starts to apologize, but I cut her off by turning away, the barista calling my name to grab our order.
I hand Maya her cup and quietly say, “I can’t do that. I’m sorry,” before hurrying out the door.