12. Brodie
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
The clock on my wall counts the time, the house is so quiet I can hear the second hand swishing its way around the clockface in rhythmic time.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Lamp light on. Laptop open.
A movie plays in the background.
I have a pencil in my hand, but it hasn’t written anything in over twenty minutes. My eyes are absentmindedly flickering to my cell as if I’m expecting a notification.
It never comes.
No surprise, I was just at the gym with a few of my teammates, and Sully is on his date?—
The door bursts open.
Hits the wall behind it and bounces slowly until it stops, my roommate huffing and puffing as if he’s just run a mile, up the sidewalk, flew into the house, and up the stairs.
”Dude.” He breathes in and out. “You will not believe what just happened on my date.”
“What happened on your date?” I resist the urge to roll my eyes, the little green monster of jealousy strolling his way through my gut, threatening to rear his ugly head.
He begins pacing back and forth in my small bedroom—dramatically—running a hand through his hair in agitation. This is not new behavior for Sully. He’s been prone to theatrics in the past. In fact, if there was a tally of players who try to start fights on the ice, he’d be in the top three.
”I just got back from my date with Lizzy.” The Master of the Obvious tells me, as if I wasn’t already painfully aware he’s been out with her. And if I said I wasn’t listening for the front door to slam closed, I’d be lying.
“And?”
I seriously do not want any details.
I don’t want to hear how sexy she looked or how funny she is, or how she smelled like flowers. The only thing I’d want to hear is how he burped or farted in front of her and disgusted her?—
“Dude,” he says again because he loves the word dude. “The only thing she wanted to do was ask questions about you.”
My eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and I stop the swivel of my desk chair.
“No, she didn’t.”
He’s being an asshole.
“Why would I lie?”
“Uh, because you’re an asshole?”
He laughs. “Bro. You can’t make this shit up.”
I eye him skeptically because this in fact is the dumb shit he would make up—just to get a reaction out of me. I love my roommates, but they’re dumb fuckers sometimes, and hazing or pranks aren’t uncommon, even among those of us living together.
“Whatever you say, man.” I tamper the beating of my chest.
“I shit you not,” he blathers on, oblivious to the fact that I don’t want to talk about Lizzy. Or his date. Or his date with Lizzy.
“Everything with us was fine, and then I said something about roommates, and all of a sudden, she only wants to sit and blab about you.”
Fine—but not great? I want to taunt—but taunting isn’t my style. Being chill is my style. Not caring is my style. Being stone-faced is my style.
Jealousy and irritation and sarcasm? Not my style.
My roommate lets out a frustrated sigh, flopping down on the edge of my bed, uninvited.
“Could you not?” I grind out. “Get your shoes off my bed.”
He ignores me.
”She kept asking about your hobbies, your interests, what you do in here all day.” He leans forward and grabs a fidget toy from my desk and begins spinning it.
“What I do in here all day?” I pause. “Does that mean she thinks I do nothing but sit in my room? Like a hermit?”
“I don’t fucking know, man.”
“But did you make it sound like I’m a fucking caveman? That’s not cool.”
He side-eyes me. “Now you sound like her, one question after the other.” He snorts. “This doesn’t happen to me. Ever.” Another snort and he tosses the fidget toy in the air, catching it.
Tosses it.
Catches it.
“It was so fucking annoying.” He snorts. “I mean, it”s like she was more interested in you than she was in me, and we both know that isn’t true.”
“Gee, thanks.”
He looks over at me, lifting one of his bushy eyebrows that chicks lose their shit over. Apparently brows are a thing.
“Are you pouting?”
He shakes his head.
But I think he is and can”t help but chuckle at his frustration—at his expense. My, how the mighty have fallen. And if he’s butt hurt that my name came up a few times on his date, he’s more sensitive than I give him credit for.
”Come on, Sully, it”s not that big of a deal if she isn’t into you.”
He gives me a skeptical look. ”Not that big of a deal? I wanted her to ask questions about me, not you.”
“Did it break your heart?” I tease, giving him shit.
“Pfft, no. But every damn time I tried to steer the conversation away from you, she just kept bringing it right back.” He seems to be studying me with a new, critical eye. “You’re boring. I don’t get it.”
I lean back in my chair, brooding over his words.
It”s true. I am boring.
And I do tend to keep to myself most of the time, preferring the solitude of my room to the living room, but that’s mostly because my roommates are slobs, and I can’t stand the mess. Like, clean up your shit. Is it so hard to throw cans in the trash? Or put your dirty dishes in the dishwasher?
I stay in my room for sanitary purposes.
“I have a hard time believing my presence has an impact on your love life.”
As far as girls go, I’m a nobody.
Definitely not a heartthrob the way my friends are, or whatever the term is for “dudes chicks would rather bang.”
”I thought we were having a great time, you know, laughing and shit and whatever.” He ignores my statement and continues to think out loud, mostly to himself as if I weren’t in the room. “But then, out of nowhere, she starts asking me all these questions about you. It makes no sense.” He hesitates, thinking some more. “Probably only brought it up because of the squirrel, but still.”
I furrow my brow in confusion. ”Did she seriously ask that many questions about me?”
That really does not make a lick of sense, but.
Whatever.
He has to be exaggerating to get a reaction out of me, but why would he do that?
I haven’t expressed an interest in Lizzy, so there’s no need to make me jealous. I’m cool as a fucking cucumber about the subject. He’s the one running a hand through his hair, his expression a mix of bewilderment, amusement, and irritation.
Mostly irritation.
His pride is probably wounded as fuck.
That’s the only reason I can think of for him to be whining about this shit, something he routinely does after a first date, of which there are many.
First date. First fuck.
Then it’s out the front door with a swat on the ass.
”She wanted to know if you were single, if you were dating anyone, if you asked about her... That’s weird, right?”
I shrug because I have no better way to reply. “Chicks are nosy.”
But the knot in my stomach returns, betraying how casual I’m trying to sound.
”I don”t know what to say,” I admit. ”I mean, did you tell her anything?”
Sully nods, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. ”Yeah, I couldn”t exactly dodge the questions—they were coming at me hard. I told her you were single ‘cause obviously you are. But that you don’t like leaving the house.”
What the fuck! “I leave the house, you prick.”
“But you’d prefer not to leave the house unless it’s for hockey,” he counters, sounding so sure of himself.
“So? I’m tired all the time, dude. In case you haven’t noticed, we don’t have a lot of free time.”
“So?” he counters again. “That doesn’t stop no one from dating. And Carson got engaged last semester.”
“Well, Carson is going into the NHL, and he’s been dating his girlfriend since they were in high school, so he doesn’t have to worry about her being a gold-digger.”
Those are the facts. It’s hard to date when you’re at the top of your collegiate career, not knowing who’s in it to boost their social rating and who’s in it because they actually love you.
”Fair enough,” Sully concedes, plucking at the fabric of my bedspread. “But still, it”s kind of weird, don”t you think? Her talking about you the entire time.”
I shrug, feeling a mix of amusement and curiosity. ”I doubt she was actually talking about me the entire time.”
“I’m no mathematician, but it was at least eighty percent of the time.”
Eighty percent? “You are so full of shit.”
He throws a pillow in my direction, but it misses. “Why the fuck would I lie?”
Sully goes quiet for a few moments, and we watch the TV until he says, “So what are you gonna do about it?”
“What am I going to do about what? Lizzy?”
“Yes, asshole. What are you going to do about Lizzy.”
“Uh. Nothing?”
His brow furrows. “Why?”
“What do you mean, why? Why would I?” She didn’t agree to go on a date with me—she went out with him! And I have no way of knowing if he’s fucking with me or not, so I’m going with “he’s fuckin’ with me,” and I’m going to forget about it as soon as he walks out of my room.
“I think you should go for it.”
“Go for it.” Don’t make me laugh.
But we do both laugh, the tension of the moment dissipating like a fart being carried off by a breeze.
“Think about it,” he tells me as he pushes himself up and off the bed. His date clothes are a far cry from what I would wear, but whatever—that”s just me.
“There’s nothing to think about.”
“Shh.” He presses a finger to my lips. “Don’t argue.”
Then his huge hand claps me on the back as he goes out my door, hurried footsteps fading down the hallway and down the steps.
I sink back onto my bed, the echo of his words still ringing in my ears. “I think you should go for it.”
Not likely.
Why would Lizzy be talking about me on her date?
Seriously.
I turn to stare out the window, unable to shake the feeling of unease that’s settled in the pit of my stomach.
I can’t help it. I replay our brief interaction in my mind; Lizzy”s laughter, her teasing banter, the way she looked in that white tank top, how she eyed me curiously when I walked around my room as if giving me a once-over… the kind you give someone when you’re interested in their face and body. The kind of look you give someone when you’re trying to decide whether you think they’re good-looking or not.
But try as I might, I couldn”t make sense of it. Lizzy was a puzzle—a vibrant, complex enigma that defied easy explanation. Yet despite my confusion, I couldn”t deny the flutter of excitement that stirred within me at the thought of her possibly harboring feelings for me.
I rise from the chair and begin pacing back and forth across the room as I grapple with my emotions.
Emotions? What are those?
Not something I often have, ha ha—at least, not toward women. Too few of them cross my path, and when I’m at class, it’s not like I use the opportunity to hit on people. That’s not what I’m here for, duh.
Still.
Something has me reaching for my phone, my fingers trembling with anticipation as I tap out a message to the neighbor girl.