Chapter Seven
Seven
Abby
I try to listen to what my professor is saying, but the flash on my cell phone screen is distracting.
It glares at me like a beacon in the dark, and as much as I’d like to delete it without reading it, I know my curiosity will get the better of me eventually.
It’s like a sickness, my need to see what he’s said.
My frail hope that this time it won’t be something horrible.
I’m doing my best to pay attention as Professor Jameson drones on about the cognitive process, even jotting down a few notes to distract myself, but it’s no use.
My fingers practically itch to read the text, to put myself out of my own misery.
I discreetly slide my phone closer, lighting up the screen as my fears are confirmed.
Dad: The least you could do is call me, Abigail.
Dad: After everything I’ve done for you?
Dad: You owe me that much.
It’s tame in comparison to some of the ones he’s been sending, but it sets my teeth on edge just the same.
I know they’re just a precursor, just a taste of what he’ll be sending later if I continue to ignore them, and that thought almost makes me reply.
Almost. Instead, I shove my phone away, doubling down on my notes as I give the professor laser focus.
You have better things to worry about.
He can’t hurt you anymore. Not if you don’t let him.
I should block his number, I know that, and if someone were to ask why I haven’t yet, and Lila and Ian have done so multiple times, I wouldn’t have a good answer.
I know deep down a part of me still craves that connection, that maybe I always will, but a more rational part of me knows it’s toxic.
That the longer I let him do this, the more it will cut me inside.
And still I let him do it.
Another text buzzes on my phone, and this time, I snatch it up in a hurry, angry at myself immediately for doing so. Thankfully, it isn’t my father.
Christine: Still coming for tea after class?
I sigh in relief. Being friends with Ian’s mother was never on my bingo card, but in the past few months, her friendship has become a godsend. I’ll never understand why she chooses to give it, but I’m grateful for it, regardless.
I tap out a quick reply.
Me: sure thing
And as wild as it is that I would be excited to see the woman my father cheated on to have me…I am. I really am.
Maybe she can tell me why I can’t block my father’s number.
Ian’s mom’s smile is wide and bright as she ushers me in the door, taking my jacket and hanging it on the hook.
“Well, come in, come in,” she says. “How was class?”
The thing about Christine is—she’s the only person who knows my shit who doesn’t treat me like a child. Maybe that’s why I keep coming back here, even though seeing her fills me with tremendous guilt simply for existing.
“It was good,” I tell her. “Long.”
“I can imagine. All that fancy science stuff goes right over my head.” She takes my arm and leads me into the sitting room, urging me down on the couch. “Let me get the tea.”
I sit quietly on the couch as she moves into the kitchen, and I can hear the faint sounds of her pouring tea into cups before she reappears with two steaming mugs. She hands me one before settling onto the couch beside me.
“So,” she starts, blowing on her mug. “How is life?”
I chuckle, blowing on my own mug. “It’s going, I guess.”
“And the Bradley situation? Is he still hounding you?”
She really doesn’t beat around the bush.
I clear my throat. “He’s still texting me a lot.”
“Asshole,” she mutters. “I’m sorry. He never really did know how to be told no.” She places her hand on my knee. “Are you okay?”
I almost feel like laughing at the question. Here I am, sitting on the couch of my dad’s wife, technically, since their divorce hasn’t been finalized, listening to her ask his bastard if she’s okay.
“Can I ask you a question?”
Christine nods. “Of course.”
“Is it weird for you?”
“Is what weird for me?”
I twirl a finger in my direction. “This. Me. Sometimes I still don’t know why you talk to me.”
“Ah.” Her lips purse, and she seems to consider as she takes a slow sip from her mug.
“Maybe at first,” she admits after she’s swallowed.
“But when Ian told me about you…all I could think about was how lonely you must be.” She gives me a stern look.
“You didn’t ask for any of this, Abby. I know that.
It wouldn’t be fair of me to hate you for it. ”
I sip from my own mug, considering that. It doesn’t feel like coddling, but rather…acceptance. I think it’s what has me continuing to come back here at least once a week.
“He still blames me for everything,” I tell her. “He wants me to ‘make it right.’ I don’t even know how I would go about doing that.”
“And I’m sure he has no idea either,” Christine says. “He’s just yelling into the void because he knows you’re the easiest target.”
My gaze snaps up to meet hers. “What do you mean?”
“It’s just that…” She sighs, looking sympathetic. “You still love him. You’re not like your brother. You’re…softer than that.”
I frown, not liking the assessment. Christine must pick up on that.
“That’s not to say you’re soft,” she clarifies. “Because you aren’t. Absolutely you aren’t. You’re just softer than your brother. That’s not a bad thing. It’s just something Bradley knows he can exploit.”
My face falls. “It’s stupid, isn’t it. How I’m still holding on to this idea that he might actually care about me someday.”
“It’s not stupid,” Christine tells me. She sets her mug on the coffee table, turning toward me. “He’s your father. Of course you’re going to feel that way. Deep down”—she makes a face—“and I mean deep down, I’m sure Ian feels a bit of what you’re feeling too.”
I snort. “Somehow I doubt that.”
“I know my son,” she chuckles. “He acts tough, but again, deep down—he feels just as much as everyone else.”
“I know I should just tell him to fuck off,” I mutter bitterly. I wince when I realize what I’ve said. “Sorry.”
Christine laughs. “Don’t be. It’s fine. You probably should, but…You can do it on your own terms in your own time. When you’re ready to cut that tie, you will.”
“Maybe,” I sigh.
“Talk about something else. How is living with Jack?”
I make a face. “You heard about that?”
“Ian told me.”
“Was he…upset?”
She shakes her head. “I get the sense he just worries he pushed you away somehow.”
“It’s not that,” I say immediately, setting my cup down on the coffee table. “It isn’t. It’s just…” I blow out a breath. “Ian still sees me as a kid sometimes.” I wave my hands placatingly. “And that’s not a bad thing! It’s just that…sometimes it can feel…”
“Suffocating,” Christine supplies.
I nod. “Exactly. I just want to feel normal for a little while, you know? After everything…I need to feel normal.”
“I get it,” she says. “Really. Don’t worry about Ian. He’ll be fine. He’s a big boy.”
“I hope so.”
“But you’ve been there for about a week now, right? Is it…okay?” She laughs softly. “I know Jack can be a handful.”
“It’s been…” I tilt my head back and forth, thinking. “Interesting,” I say finally. “He’s been pretty busy now that he’s playing again. He had two games this week, so honestly, between that and practice, I haven’t seen him all that much.”
“It was nice of him to offer the room though,” she points out.
Her words give me pause, because in reality…it was nice of him to offer. Have I even told him thank you? Jesus. What an asshole move.
“It was nice,” I agree. “I was surprised when he did.”
“Oh, Jack is a marshmallow,” Christine chuckles. “I’m not surprised. From what Ian’s told me, he spent most of his teen years playing parent to Lila, if you can believe it.”
“Now that is definitely surprising. Jack? Parenting?”
“He had a lot put on his shoulders at a young age. I wouldn’t put too much stock in his flighty personality. I’ve always gotten the sense it’s just hiding what’s underneath.”
My nose wrinkles. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know…” She shrugs. “It’s just a feeling I have.”
I consider that, trying to imagine a world where flirty Jack Baker could be more than just the snarky nightmare that now lives across the hall from me. It almost makes me laugh just thinking about it.
“Anyway,” Christine says, breaking through my thoughts. “Finish your tea, and then tell me all about school.”
I smile, feeling a warmth in my stomach I’ve only ever felt with my own mother before she died. It’s just easy with Christine—and that fact is a miracle in itself, given that she has no reason to care about me at all. I can’t help but feel overwhelmingly grateful that she’s chosen to do so.
“Right,” I say, taking another sip. “Of course.”
Distantly, I’m still kind of thinking about the fact that I have yet to tell Jack thank you for letting me stay, knowing that I’ll need to rectify that the next time I see him.
I’m sure that’s going to be oodles of fun.
When I get home, I’m surprised to find Jack already there; I guess his practice didn’t run as late as it usually does.
I linger in the doorway for a moment, my resolve to thank him for letting me stay here wavering a bit in the face of, you know, actually having to do it.
I can already imagine all the snarky things he’ll have to say about it, but I can’t just continue to live here without having told him I appreciate it.
Because I do. Despite his ridiculous ways, Christine was right.
It was really nice of him to offer.
He notices me standing there as he turns from the microwave, nodding in greeting. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I say back.
He cocks his head when I don’t move. “You playing a game or something? Why are you just standing there?”
“Oh, I…” I frown at myself. I’m being ridiculous. “No reason. Just lost in thought.”
He shuts the microwave door and starts pressing buttons. “Rough day?”
“You could say that,” I huff. I try for casual. “What about you? How was your day?”
His eyes round. “Are you actually asking me about my day?”
“Clearly a bad idea,” I grouse, stepping through the living room and dropping my backpack on the couch.
“No, no,” he laughs. “Just surprised me. For a second I thought you’d been bodysnatched.”
Am I really that much of an asshole to him?
“I was just trying to be nice,” I mutter.
“Nice is a good look on you,” he teases. “As for your question, it was okay. Practice wasn’t too long, so I was able to get out of there without a sore ass for once.”
“Why would your ass be sore?”
“All the spankings Coach doles out if we make bad plays,” he says matter-of-factly.
I blink back at him, unimpressed.
“Kidding,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “Clearly.”
“Nah, everything fucking hurts after a long practice. Just part of it.”
“And your arm? How’s that doing?”
He pauses at the fridge where he’d been reaching inside to pull out a beer, his mouth tilting down a fraction before he recovers. “It’s fine. Just a little stiff, that’s all.”
“Well, that’s good, I guess.”
“Mhm.”
I realize I’m stalling, because there’s no version of this conversation where Jack isn’t a bit of a shit about it, but I know it’s something that has to be done.
Like a Band-Aid, I think.
“Hey, so…” I rub the back of my neck, stepping closer to the attached kitchen and settling onto one of the stools at the bar. “I realized something today.”
“That I’m the best roommate on the planet?”
“No.” I roll my eyes.
“That I’m the handsomest roommate on the planet?”
I stare at him flatly.
“Fine, fine,” he laughs. “What did you realize?”
Like a Band-Aid, I remind myself.
“I…never said thank you. For you letting me stay here. It was…really nice of you to offer and…I appreciate it.”
He blinks back at me for several seconds, and a part of me finds it amusing that I’ve managed to shock him. Then he recovers, his mouth quirking at the corners.
“On a scale of one to ten, how painful was that?”
I grimace. “Solid eleven.”
His laugh is loud and boisterous, transforming his already—admittedly—handsome face into something sort of devastating.
He has dimples, I realize. Honest to God dimples.
How have I never noticed that before? I mean, Lila has them, too, so it makes sense, but…
Is that really how hard I’ve been trying not to pay attention to Jack?
“It’s really no problem,” he assures me. “The room was there, and it’s not like our schedules really cross all that much.” He makes a face. “Tonight being an exception, I guess.”
“Still,” I assert. “I appreciate it. It’s nice having my own space again.”
“Probably nice not to hear all the moaning through the walls anymore too,” he notes.
I make an ack sound. “Don’t remind me.”
“I can start being louder during my self-love sessions if you’re feeling homesick,” he says seriously.
“Please never say ‘self-love sessions’ to me ever again.”
“No promises,” he says. He waves a finger in a circle in the direction of his face. “No filter.”
The microwave starts to beep, and he turns from it to me to it again, his brows rising. “Want some nachos? They’re kind of my specialty. There’s enough to spare.”
Now, part of me wants to say no, because there has been enough interaction between me and my ornery roommate tonight, I think, but then again—it is the most normal interaction we’ve had in, well…ever.
Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to try to foster some sort of peace between us.
“Nachos sound good,” I say, keeping my voice casual.
“Just try not to fall in love with me after having them,” he says with a straight face.
He earns himself another eye roll for his trouble. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
He chuckles as he takes the plate from the microwave, setting it in front of me as the smell of melted cheese and jalapeno peppers wafts to my nose, making my stomach growl. They really do look pretty good.
“Bon appétit,” Jack says. He takes a chip, waiting for me to do the same before he offers his in a sort of mock toast gesture. “To the start of a beautiful friendship.”
“Again,” I snort, “let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I doubt the nachos are that good.”
Jack just smirks at me. “We’ll see.”