Chapter Three
Three
Abby
When I get home from the hospital, I’m more than exhausted, and I still have too much to do.
I have a paper due in my Social Psychology class that I haven’t even started on, even knowing it’s due in a little over a week.
I throw my keys on the little side table, rubbing my eyes as I lock the door to my tiny apartment behind me.
My studio in Back Bay isn’t the most glamorous of spaces, despite how nice the neighborhood is, but given that my dad had paid up the rent for the next year before he practically disowned me, I don’t have a lot of other options.
Even if I hate the idea of living on his charity.
Still, being a twenty-five-year-old grad student doesn’t exactly pay, well…anything, and the only job I can juggle with my course load is my gig at the coffee shop down the street, so I guess I have to take what I can get.
Despite my usual mantra to keep Jack Baker far from my mind, I find my thoughts lingering on his situation, even feeling a pang of sympathy for him.
I know the poor guy lives and breathes hockey—that’s easy enough to know about him, even based on our limited interactions—so it must really suck to be delivered news like that after already missing out on the entire beginning of the season because of, in Lila’s words, “his own dumbassery.” I can’t speak on that, since I don’t know what a triple axel is, but I have to imagine it’s not something one should attempt while drunk, even if a teammate dares you to.
Plus, I still can’t get the haunted look he wore when he admitted he was scared out of my head. I think it’s the most vulnerable I’ve ever seen Jack look.
I left before I got to talk to Ian, but it was easy to see how distressed Lila was about the whole thing when I gave her keys back.
Despite his…chaotic personality, I know that Lila adores her brother.
It’s easy to see how much she cares about him every time she speaks of him, or anytime they interact.
Truth be told, it almost makes me jealous, the relationship they have.
It’s something I’m still trying to figure out with my own brother.
I shake away my thoughts of the Bakers, deciding that I need nothing more than a hot shower before I hit the books.
I stretch my arms over my head to pull off my T-shirt, tossing it in the hamper by my bed before stepping into the tiny attached bath to turn on the hot water.
I brace myself against the sink, giving my appearance a once-over, taking in the slight dark circles under my eyes.
I can’t remember the last time I didn’t have them.
My entire life has been a constant stream of uneasiness and stress. It’s a given, I think, when you spend a good deal of your life being someone’s dirty little secret. Constantly worried about what people might learn of you, what they might say if they did.
It’s fucking exhausting, really. It’s supposed to be better now that my dad is out of the picture, but for the first few months after he ran off, there was plenty in the tabloids about me just the same.
Who I was, what sort of person I was, speculations on my personal life…
I don’t know how Ian fucking dealt with it all those years.
Thankfully, I seem to be old news now, and I’ve made it my life’s mission to never be on anyone’s radar like that ever again.
I want a nice, easy life going forward. I’ve had more than my fair share of drama, thank you very much.
The shower spray is everything I needed, and I linger under the warm water for a lot longer than is necessary, my thoughts going back to that conversation in the hospital without my permission.
I think the thing that bothers me the most about Jack Baker is how easy everything seems to be for him.
And yes, I’m well aware he’s had his own suffering in his life, I’m not discrediting that, but I think the crux of it all is that I’m jealous that he’s suffered so much and somehow come out on the other side being so damned happy all the time.
I mean, granted, Lila is a generally happy person, too, so by that logic I should resent her as well, but Jack is…
Jack is sort of hard to ignore.
Every moment I spend in his presence, he’s fixated on making sure I don’t leave the interaction without being mildly irritated at best, like he’s made it his life’s mission to annoy the ever-loving fuck out of me.
The constant banter, the incessant teasing—he’s just…
irritating. I want to pretend he doesn’t exist most of the time, but he makes it so impossible to do so, just by being himself.
I run my fingers through my wet hair as I rinse out my shampoo, thinking of his quiet thank you. Of the look on his face when he said it.
Is it at all possible that underneath all that silliness and swagger, a real person exists?
I snort under my breath, wiping the lingering suds from my eyes.
Doubtful, I decide.
After my shower, I drag out my book and settle on my bed with my notes sprawled out in front of me, chewing on the end of my pen and trying not to think about Jack Baker. Something that I have to actively do a lot lately, it seems.
I am scared.
I tap my pen against my chin, growing irritated with myself. So what if he had a moment of vulnerability? It doesn’t mean he’s not the fuckboy he’s proven himself to be at every turn and venture. It doesn’t mean I should be sitting here feeling sorry for him.
So why am I?
I throw my pen against my notebook, glancing at the clock to note the late hour, sighing. My brain is all over the place tonight, and I’m fairly certain that I won’t be getting anything done. Too much excitement for one day, I think.
So I do the thing I’ve been considering doing since I got home, hating myself all the while.
Me: how is Jack doing?
It doesn’t take Ian long to answer, the little dots dancing for only a few seconds before he responds:
Ian: He’s being frustrating is what he’s doing. Trying to convince us not to tell Coach about his injury.
I frown. That’s…Well. I guess that is very Jack, considering how vehemently he insisted he needed to continue playing. Even if I don’t really understand why.
Me: but didn’t the doctor say that it’ll only get worse if he keeps playing?
Ian: Exactly. Try getting that through his thick skull though.
Ian: Sorry we didn’t get to those post-game dinner plans.
I smile softly, practically hearing the concern in his tone. It’s a wonder my brother’s head doesn’t split with how much he’s constantly worrying about other people.
Me: it’s fine, seriously
Me: Lila said you guys still won! Congrats.
Ian: Thanks. Raincheck on dinner?
Me: absolutely.
There’s a brief pause before:
Ian: You doing okay?
I frown. It’s an innocent enough question, but I know the meaning behind it is less so.
Ever since dad left, Ian (and Lila, for that matter) have taken to treating me with kid gloves.
Constantly checking in with me, always trying to get me to come over or to go out with them…
It’s like they’re afraid of leaving me alone for too long.
I want to remind them that I’m not the only one who dad hurt—but I guess since I’m the only one still letting it bother me, it’s a valid concern.
Still, it makes me feel like I don’t know how to take care of myself sometimes.
Me: I’m fine. Promise.
I fall back against my pillows as I reach for my headphones, popping them into my ears and letting Billie Eilish sing away my troubles.
Her soothing voice always settles the disquiet in me, and tonight is no different, even if I can’t fully pinpoint where the disquiet comes from.
Maybe it’s the unanswered texts in my phone that I’ve been avoiding all week, maybe it’s the coursework piling up around me, or maybe it’s even the misplaced sense of pity I feel for the world’s hottest douche canoe.
Probably a lot of that last one, if I’m being honest.
I close my eyes as Billie’s voice lulls me, putting my hands behind my head on my pillow and stretching out to take a breather before I inevitably force myself to take another crack at my paper.
It means that I don’t hear it, at first—the metallic pinging that comes from my bathroom.
It means that when the first spew of water starts to jet out from where the faucet handles are, I don’t notice, not at first.
It’s not until the song ends and starts to blend into the next one that I catch the roaring sound of spraying water, turning my head to the catastrophe that is currently taking place in my tiny bathroom.
Because it isn’t enough, apparently, that I’m drowning in schoolwork, that my dad’s a dick who tried to ruin my life, not even that my head is hung up tonight on a guy who I shouldn’t be giving a second thought to.
No, apparently that isn’t enough fuckery for Abigail Thompson.
Because for no good reason, all at once—a pipe bursts in my bathroom, a small flood underway.
I stare at it for all of three seconds before my body catches up to the shock, jumping into action to do what, I’m not even sure yet.
Great, I think. Just fucking great.