Chapter 3
CHAPTER
THREE
“Oh my god. You got sexy panties!” My roommate, Tessa, points an accusatory finger at the black lace underwear I’ve carelessly tossed onto my bed. “And cute pajamas!”
I quickly grab them and shove them into my overnight bag, heat creeping up my cheeks. “No, I didn’t.”
“I saw them! They were both black and cheeky. Natalie, spill! Why did you buy brand new black lace panties, and something that’s meant to be taken off for your trip home?” She asks, mischief clear in her sparkling eyes.
Aimlessly, I rummage through my closet to avoid her question.
There’s no way my plan to have accidentally packed sexy-ish pajamas in my in-case-we-have-to-pull-over-for-the-night bag will sit well with her.
Tessa is all about tough love and thinks it’s time I move on from the Caden fantasy.
If he wanted you, love, he’d have acted on it by now.
You’re not exactly subtle about your crush.
Tessa and I have been roommates since sophomore year.
We aren’t best friends, but we both had terrible experiences with our first-year roommates.
Mine blared loud music, touched everything with peanut-buttery fingers, and had a revolving door of guests, leaving me to study in the library or a cafe.
An absolute horror show for a can-die-by-peanut, introverted personality like me.
Tessa’s roommate was a whirlwind of chaos, which didn’t mesh well with her ADHD.
As a result, her grades suffered while her social life thrived.
When we paired up, we fell into a rhythm: I provided the calm, studious body double for her, and she flourished academically, never ate peanut butter anything once she found out I had an allergy, because oh my god, you’re more important than peanut butter, can you imagine?
, and texted her wild friend Nora for weekend campus escapades.
I pull a few more sweaters and sweatshirts out of my closet for my month home in Maine. “It worries me you can tell if my underwear is new. Why are you keeping tabs on what I wear down there?”
“Oh no. Don’t you dare try to turn this on me.
It’s not like I want to know about your tragic panties situation.
I was there when you bought that unfortunate twelve-pack and it still haunts me.
” She shudders dramatically, running a finger through her long, straight, platinum blonde hair.
“If you want Caden to see you in that black lace number, though, I definitely wouldn’t pack that sack of a sweatshirt,” she muses, lying down on my plush pink rug and scrolling through her phone.
“Who says they’re for him?” I pause mid-fold of my favorite sweatshirt. It falls just above my knee and is—admittedly—hideously oversized and worn. Tessa “accidentally” lost the box I packed it in when we moved into this apartment, but I found it tucked behind a dumpster the next day.
Tessa snorts. “You can’t tell me after this whole charade you’re not hoping he’ll finally put you out of your unrequited love misery.”
“Caden is just bailing me out of the white lie I told my parents, that’s all.”
“One that you’ve continued to tell because you love the idea of it being real way too much.”
I love being roommates with Tessa, but it can be really annoying how observant she is, especially when she’s right.
I’ve had plenty of chances to fake a breakup with Caden and satisfy my parents’ hopes and dreams that I’m getting over Dillon and living the normal college life they never had.
Heck, they probably could have lived a better life vicariously through me if I invented stories about going to parties with Tessa and playing the field—something my mom, who never went to college because she got pregnant with me and married my dad young, said she always dreamed of doing.
But I didn’t. I kept the Caden Sinclair lie alive because I loved the feel of his hand on my shoulder way too much. Loved tucking myself in the dream and pretending that when he looked at me like I hung the moon, it was real and not just for a photo to send home.
How could I let go of that?
As if he knows he’s on my mind, my phone lights up with a picture of us posing as a couple. I grab it quickly, heart racing.
“Hey! I’m glad you called. I forgot to mention you should pack thermals; my parents want to go snowshoeing, and I thought you might like that,” I say, not bothering to hide the sun in my voice.
Next time Caden walks into our apartment for a study date, it’ll be as my boyfriend, and not much studying will be happening.
“Yeah, so listen, Nat.” Caden hesitates.
“Uh oh. What’s wrong?”
“Remember how I was trying to speed up my Russian Twists?”
“Mmhmm.”
“Well, good news is, I nailed the move.”
“That’s awesome!” I hold up two winter hats: one cute and stylish, the other infinitely warmer but utterly dorky. Tessa points at the cute one, and I toss it into my suitcase. I could always rely on Caden to keep me warm if needed.
“Bad news is, I pommel horsed too close to the sun during my dismount and I—uhm, I fractured my tibia.”
My racing, giddy heart stutters a beat. Caden’s trained for the Olympics his whole life; this injury might shatter his dreams, and even if it doesn’t, it’s going to make the next few months before the qualifier hell. “Are you okay?”
“No—Nat, I fucking broke my leg,” he says with a bitterness in his tone.
Caden’s never sounded like this while talking to me and I swallow hard, forcing down the pain cutting into my chest. I know all too well what Caden is going through.
When I was thirteen, I was one of the best figure skaters in my age group in the world.
The Olympics weren’t just a dream, they were my future.
Then, my period started, and the pain and bleeding led to missed practices. Soon, I traded competitions and figure skating costumes in for hospital visits and neck-tied gowns, and the future promised to me was ripped away.
This is going to be one of the lowest points in Caden’s life. My focus needs to be on him.
“Where are you? How can I help?”
“I’m home,” he says, much softer. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped.”
“Okay, I’ll come over—”
“No, Nat. I’m home, home. Like in Michigan. I’m having surgery at U of M.”
“Oh.”
“Which means—” He hesitates again, and I can feel the weight of his unspoken words fall on my shoulders.
I glance at Tessa, who’s now listening intently, her expression grim.
“You won’t be able to come home with me for Christmas,” I finish, shoulders dropping in defeat. “And last year we used the ‘he broke his foot’ excuse.”
“I’m so sorry, Nat. But listen, I’ve got a plan,” Caden says, suddenly far perkier than is called for given the situation.
If my three year friendship with Caden has taught me anything, it’s that Suddenly-Perky-Caden-Sinclair is a very dangerous Caden Sinclair.
Last year, Suddenly-Perky-Caden-Sinclair convinced me to get a tattoo of figure skates tied in a pretty bow over three of my excision scars on my abdomen. I sobbed in the chair—not because of the physical pain, but because of the mental pain I finally released with the action.
My tears gave him too much confidence in his ideas.
“No, it’s okay. I can figure something out. Just worry about yourself.”
“Honestly, I really don’t have much going on besides sulking in this hospital bed. So, I started thinking—”
“We both know you shouldn’t do that, Cade.”
“Ha. Ha. Just trust me, okay? I’ve got you. They’re bringing my lunch in. I gotta go.”
“Wait, shouldn’t you tell me your plan first?”
“Oh, red Jello. Just be ready to introduce your boyfriend to your parents at lunch tomorrow like you had planned. It’ll be great! Bro. I got two desserts, noice!”
“What? Caden? I don’t understand…how—” My phone beeps, telling me the call is over and my phone returns to the home screen.
Right. Well.
Trusting Caden with this feels like trusting someone who is the embodiment of the “Could a depressed person do this?” meme, but my only other option is to come clean to my parents.
So, against my better judgement, and my gut screaming that Caden is high on painkillers, I choose to trust him.
Besides when has Caden Sinclair ever let me down?