“Flowers! I want to color flowers.” Lizzie sat on the ground near my couch, her legs crossed in her dress as Elle joined her. She sat on her knees, pushing her hair over her shoulder as she bent down to color. She hadn’t looked at me since we’d walked into my apartment. This was worse than when the team had been pissed at me. Like I’d let her down even thoughsheevaded me. I didn’t get it.
I itched to do something besides stare at the two of them. Elle pushed Lizzie’s hair behind her ear, and for one second, I saw Elle as a mom. Warm, comforting, patient. The idea of having a family and future with her made me happy and desperate for it to work. Wait.What the fuck.
Sitting on the other side of Lizzie, I grabbed a piece of paper and crayon. Drawing wasn’t a skill I had, but Lizzie didn’t care. She pointed to my paper and tapped it. “Color space, Cal. Elle is doing flowers.”
“Okay.”
Elle met my eyes for a second, her signature smile quickly in place before she went back to drawing. “What colors should our flowers be?”
“Pink. Black.”
“Definitely Charlie’s daughter,” Elle said, laughing at herself.
“He told me she wanted a tattoo after seeing all of his,” I said, earning another quick grin. “I found a bunch of fake ones, and I plan to prank him with it.”
“That’s a great idea.” She chuckled, smiling at me. “We could do it now? Do you have them?”
“I do.” I paused my terrible rendition of space. Earth looked like a marble. “Lizzie, want some tattoos?”
“Yes! A skull!”
I laughed and pushed up. “They’re in my room. Be right back.”
“I’m thirsty.” Lizzie set her crayon down.
“I’ll get you water when Cal gets your tattoos. This will be awesome.” Elle went to the kitchen, and I grabbed the tattoos I’d tossed on my dresser. There was a barbed wire one that would be funny as shit to put on her arm. Charlie would die. Smiling, I came out in the room with Elle standing near my phone, her face pale and her eyes accusatory.
My stomach bottomed out, like it knew shit was bad before my mind did. I went through every single thing I had ever done wrong, trying to piece together why the dread from her expression grew each second. Her jaw tightened, the usual spark in her eyes dulled as she pressed her lips together tight.
She shook her head, her hands at fists on her sides before she gave me a forced smile. “I need to go.”
“Wait, Elle—”
She was on her way out, and I had no idea what I’d done. But I knew I fucked up somehow. It was who I was.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
Elle
“Wait, please!” Cal shouted, his long strides walking up to me as I was out the door. I did not stop. It would be too much. Too soon.
That fucking text!
I hadn’t meant to read it. His phone was right there, lighting up. My eyes just glanced at it because it was bright. Who even let their texts show on the home screen anymore? There should’ve been a password!
It was my fault that I saw it. It wasn’t like he showed me his phone and said “Hey, read this, Elle.” But there was a box of chocolate with a sticky note saying ELLE on it on his kitchen table. I wanted to investigate because food, but then the damn phone buzzed right next to it. Fuck. He was leaving. Going to the NHL to escapeme.
I made it back to my unit and slammed the door. The words flashed in my head like a neon sign in the middle of the night.
Peter: Not poking my nose in, but an easy way to get rid of the problematic bartender “not your girlfriend” situation isto leave. Looked into your online classes, and you could be training in Philly by next week. Talked to the org, and they love your idea LMK.
Problematic bartender.Not your girlfriend.Me. I was that. Online classes…training next week…leaving campus. He promised he’d tell me if he was doing that! But maybe that had changed when he hooked up with someone else. I saw how he’d reacted to that cute girl at the nursery. When others became too involved, he got rid of them.
My breath got heavy, and my head buzzed, and I couldn’t do anything about it. I wasn’t supposed to see the message. It was his business! Sleeping with someone else meant he didn’t want me getting attached butleavingbecause of me? That hurt so much more. Our friendship meant something to me, even if he’d never have real feelings for me. I didn’t ever refer or think of myself as his girlfriend, and problematic? I’d told him everything was fine, that we were good. I’d tried to be less dramatic. I’d aimed to be zero drama. Even though my own fears held me back from speaking it out loud, I didn’t understand this. If I was an issue, why didn’t he tell me about it? Call me out?
I’d seen his face, pale and guilty. His eyes gave him away though—they’d gone dark, worried. He had the signs of someone who’d done something they shouldn’t. He hadn’t even looked that ashamed about the girl in his apartment.
