Matt: Didn’t say you weren’t. Tomorrow at six.
TEN
MATT
Sprouts Cafe smells like someone mopped the floors with kale and antiseptic.
It’s my fault I’ve been lax about my diet and my body is revolting so it’s time to get serious again. I’m glancing at the wall of probiotic sodas when Noelle breezes in—hair a little wild, skin a little pale, eyes shadowed with something soft and uncertain. Maybe it’s the overhead lighting, or maybe she doesn’t know how to act regarding our fake relationship. I know I don’t.
She spots me, aiming that smile in my direction, and for a second, I almost let myself relax. I forgot how much trouble her smile could spell. That slight upturn of those pink lips and the shy drop of her eyelids.
“Hey, Coach Grumpy,” she says in a sing-song voice, nudging me and moving into my personal bubble. “Have you been avoiding me since my graduation party?”
My laugh sounds kind of like an old pickup truck that revs but won't shift. “I was the perfect fake date at your party. Why would I avoid you?”
So many reasons.
Greyson’s sister.
My problems.
She may as well be a million years younger than me.
She studies my face too closely, like she’s searching for clues. “Seriously. What have you been doing? Something seems off.” She pauses, tilts her head. “Mysterious trips out of town… and you text like someone’s holding your phone for ransom.”
I grab a container of granola and study the label, more for the distraction than the sugar content. “Just… stuff. Friends. A couple of birthdays. Appointments.” The last word hangs, awkward, like a QB pump-faking in the pocket one too many times.
She catches it immediately, her eyes narrowing, all big-sister stubborn in a little-sister package. “Appointments?” she echoes. “Like doctors?”
My shrug is more exaggerated than I intend. “It’s nothing. Just regular maintenance for old folks like me.” I muster up my bestlet it goscowl, but she just beams brighter.
“You’re notthatold,” she smirks. “Now for this wheatgrass… whatever the heck that is. I bet I could take you in a shot competition.”
“It’s not alcohol, you know.” I snort.
She grins. “Two, please!” she calls, waving down the barista, who looks unhappy to be here. A few beats later, we’re handed tiny glass cups of murky green. I raise mine. “To new adventures and my very first?—”
But she presses it to her lips, slams the liquid, pulls a face, and barely breathes. “Oh god, oh god, oh god!” Her chair falls over, and she races toward the bathroom. I holdthe door as she drops to her knees on the cold tile, the sour stench of bile already rising. Everything inside her surges out in a hot, wet rush—green at first, then yellow flecked with bits of her lunch.
I crouch, the floor biting into my shins, and gather her damp hair in my fist, strands sticking to my fingers like wet rope. She lifts her head, lips trembling with a slurred “sorry,” and then another spasm hits. Warm vomit splatters my chest, soaking through my T-shirt.
Great. I cannot catch a break today.
Half-worried, I watch as she tries to stand, eyes watering, mouth twisted in something between horror and apology. “I think I just joined a new kind of cult,” she moans, then frowns at the rancid mess on my shirt.
“Sorry,” she murmurs. “Let me—oh god, it’s everywhere—” She grabs a fistful of recycled brown paper towels, and before I can stop her, she lifts the hem of my shirt to mop off the worst of it.
That’s when she freezes, eyes landing on the white circle of my glucose monitor, stuck low on my abdomen with half the tape peeling up.
“What’s that?” she blurts, then blushes, like she’s caught me smuggling contraband.
“Nothing,” I snap, tugging my shirt down. “Just tech. We’re not actually dating, so you don’t get access to my secrets.”
She raises an eyebrow, not buying it, but she lets it slide. “Wow, mood. Did you wake up on the wrong side of the protein powder this morning, Coach?”
I can’t help it. The corners of my mouth twitch. She has this relentless optimism, that goofy, push-my-buttons-and-see-what-happens spirit that drives me insane in everypossible way. Part of me loves it. Part of me wants to run screaming.
“Am I not allowed to have a bad day?” I shoot back, a little softer this time.
