The voice breaks me out of my reverie. I turn to see Christine stepping into the classroom with her usual half-closed smile. She may be my best friend around here, but . . . well, that’s exactly the reason she’s not running for president of Darius’ fan club anytime soon.
“Good morning, friend. How was your weekend?” I ask, trying really hard to hide the sex afterglow I’m afraid is written all over my face.
She rolls her eyes dramatically. “Well, Denise threwup on the one tiny rug in my bathroom. Not on the tile, not on the wood floor—nope, the rug. It’s like she knows that’s the one place not to do it and seeks it out. So I woke up having to do laundry before school, which, you know, is fantastic.” She gives a little shrug, as if it’s not the least bit tragic.
I grin. “Well, at least it wasn’t on your bed. Could’ve been worse.”
“You have no idea. That rug is like . . . one square foot. Why can’t she be a normal cat?” She shakes her head in mock disbelief. “Honestly, I’m thinking of giving her away. Not like she’d care.”
I chuckle. “I’m sure she’d care. Denise adores you. And she’d just puke somewhere else in protest.”
“Probably,” she agrees, still shaking her head. “Anyway, that’s my morning. How about you? How’s the whole Darius situation progressing?”
My stomach flutters at the mention of his name, but I do my best to keep it cool. “It’s . . . good,” I say, making a little circular motion with my hand, like I’m trying to catch the right words in the air. “Honestly? Better than good. We’re figuring it out. I’m trying to get over my deep-seated fear of anything sports-related, and he’s been, well, trying. More open, more—” I stop myself. I don’t want to sound like I’m gushing, but it’s hard not to after the weekend. “Just . . . more.”
Christine narrows her eyes, folding her arms over her chest. “More what? I don’t know, Harry. After everything he’s done. Wouldn’t you prefer someone who treats you like a prince from the beginning rather than someone who suddenly changes once he recognizes his mistakes?”
I sigh, reminding myself Christine cares about me. She doesn’t want me to get hurt.
“I get that, I really do,” I say, leaning against the desk in the front row. “But I think he was just . . . insecure. He actually told me he never thought someone like me would go for someone like him.” I purse my lips and wait for her cool expression to shift. It doesn’t. “I’m not making excuses for the way he treated me—believe me, I’ve had my share of conversations with him about that—but he’s trying, Christine. He made me pancakes.”
She doesn’t seem convinced, her arms still crossed as she studies me. “And you think fluffy carbs are enough? After all the years he treated you like trash?”
I bite my lip, thinking it over. “I think it’s enough for now. It’s like the kids. The way Victor picks on Rebecca. You’ve seen that, right?”
“Yes, but Darius isn’t a ten-year-old boy.”
“Fair. But he apologized. Many times. He bought me ice skates.” I give her my best pleading smile. “Can you please give him a chance? I’m not saying you have to be best friends, but just . . . try.”
Christine sighs, clearly not thrilled with this request, but she uncrosses her arms and stands. “I’ll try. But you’re my chief concern, Harry. If he hurts you, I can’t be held responsible for my actions.”
“Plot twist. The music teacher is a badass.”
“Damn right.” She makes some martial arts move I don’t know with her hands, and we both smile.
“Who’s a badass?”
My stomach flips at the sound of his voice, and then I see his hazel eyes and that damn tracksuit.
“Me,” Christine says. “Did you have any doubt?”
Darius walks in and stops near the table, forming a triangle between the three of us.
“Listen, anyone who can make a third-grade recorder concert bearable—let alone enjoyable—is the very definition of a badass.”
Christine glares at him, and I take a deep breath, waiting for her reply.
“True.” She pulls her lips in, and I can almost see the wheels in her head turning. “The recorder is the most misunderstood instrument.”
“Exactly,” Darius says.
A half smile meanders onto Christine’s face, and she turns toward me and winks.
“Well, gentlemen, I have to go get the boomwhackers ready.”
“Another critically undervalued instrument,” Darius says.
At the door, Christine pauses and turns to face us. “Don’t push your luck.”
