Chapter 32
THIRTY-TWO
NATE
“I’m not in the mood, Dom. Don’t start.”
My brother closes his mouth. The amusement written on his face when I walked in is replaced with confusion.
“Good morning to you, too,” he says.
“Do you want to talk about anything?” Troy asks.
I sit a few chairs away from Dominic instead of beside him like usual. I don’t trust myself not to start swinging today.
I woke up—which is a joke because I didn’t sleep—pissed. And sad. And lonely.
The same thought came rolling through my mind. When was it over for her?
Did she know this was coming? Did something happen yesterday? Was this always the plan?
Because it’s not over for me.
She asked for space, and I’ll give her that. She wanted time, and that’s fine. As long as she comes back.
And I made no promises not to try to get ahold of her in the meantime.
Me: I had to make Ryder’s pancakes this morning. Apparently, we do syrup shapes now. I had no idea. It resulted in a meltdown for Paige Stage. You are missed.
“Nate?” Troy says.
“Huh?” I look up to see Dominic and Troy staring at me. “What?”
Troy shrugs. “Are we gonna fight today? Talk? Not talk? What are we doing here?”
I don’t know.
I could tell them Paige left me, but it feels so soul-crushingly wrong. It’s like admitting she’s gone. That we aren’t together. That she’s not coming back.
Fuck that. Fuck all of that.
“Let’s fight,” Dominic says. “I haven’t kicked either of your asses in a while.”
Me: I don’t know how you have five brothers and don’t kill them. I have one, and he might not make it to the end of the day.
Paige: Six.
My face lights up. A warmth floods my body, and I sink back into the chair. She’s reading my texts.
Me: I’m making spaghetti tonight. Hope you are there.
Nothing.
Dominic sits up and slides a pen down the table. It hits me in the forearm.
“Hey,” he says. “Talk to us.”
“What do you want me to say? I’m in a bad mood.”
“No kidding.”
I glare at him. “Dom …”
“Sorry I’m late.” Ford comes into the conference room and sits at the head of the table. “What are we …?” He looks up. “Okay. What’s happening here?”
“Nothing,” I say, pulling my gaze to Ford.
“Bad morning?” he asks.
“Something like that.”
“Okay.” He opens his black folder and gives each of us a packet for a concert we’re going to work on. “I want to start with …”
I stop listening. I can’t force myself to care.