Now, I almost feel bad.
If her gift turns out to be even halfway decent, I’ll have to return the favor. Maybe Hayes can help me pick something out this weekend.
I call him again. The phone just rings and rings.
Still no answer.
I blow out a breath, irritated and anxious all at once. It’s already past eight. Hayes is never exactly punctual, but this is ridiculous. Practice ended over an hour ago.
I trudge back into the movie room, restart the movie, and drop into the recliner with a heavy sigh.
“What do you think, boy?” I ask Argyros, scratching behind his ears. “We’ll give him a little longer, but if his inconsiderate ass doesn’t show in the next thirty minutes, he’s going to be in serious trouble.”
Argyros yawns loudly, as if uninterested in my drama. Then he flops his head across my feet and promptly starts snoring like a chainsaw. I laugh, cuddling into him, and stack pillows around us like a mini fort.
I only meant to rest my eyes for a second, but the next thing I know, the film credits are rolling. I blink at the darkened screen, disoriented. Somehow, I managed to fall asleep even through all the blood-curdling screams and teens being butchered.
I grab my phone, a fresh spike of irritation rising as I check the call log.
Are you fucking kidding me?
It’s almost eleven and still no Hayes. Not a single call. Not even a text.
I sit there, stunned, disbelief twisting into something sharper. Angrier.
I can’t believe this. My best friend stood me up. On my birthday. Onthe anniversary of the worst thing that’s ever happened to my family.
Fury rises, sharp and fast in my chest. I know the smart move would be to go home, sleep it off, and call Hayes in the morning after I’ve had a chance to cooldown. But I’ve never been all that smart when it comes to Hayes.
I stab at his name on the screen and hit call. As the phone rings, I rehearse the lecture in my head that I’ll give him once he inevitably starts groveling, begging for my forgiveness.
Well—after I scream and curse him out, obviously. Then comes the lecture. A good one, too.
I’ll tell him how disappointed I am. How he ruined my eighteenth birthday. That I might never forgive him.
Of course I will—eventually.
But he doesn’t need to know that.
I want him to sweat and squirm and feel really shitty for a while before I even think about letting him off the hook. He needs to understand how badly he screwed up.
Finally, on the fifth try, he answers.
“Jesus, Alysander!” His voice is sharp. Unfamiliar. Cold. “What is it?”
I freeze.
Did he seriously just snap at me, likeI’mthe one in the wrong?
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I’m too blindsided to even form words.
“Well? Are you going to say something or not?” he barks.
“Are you serious?” I finally manage, voice cracking. “You’re mad atme?”
This isn’t how this was supposed to go.
I thought maybe something came up. Footballpractice ran late. A school meeting. An emergency. Anything reasonable. But this version of him—angry, clipped, distant—I don’t understand it.
