Like he didn’t even notice I missed an entire holiday that most people spend with their families. Never mind that I spent that week sick in bed. I bet he’d have something to say about the one person who cared enough to stay with me.
“Finals were fine,” I say numbly, ignoring most of what he’s said already.
He’s already moved on. He continues, unbothered.
“And you’ll be in shape for the match Friday? West Virginia has a competitive lineup. This James Parker kid cuts a ridiculous amount of weight and still comes out looking like a heavyweight. The steroid rumors are probably exaggerated, but either way, he's the kind of opponent you don’t want to underestimate.”
I stop walking. My dad keeps rambling, and I realize he hasn’t asked me a single question about me. About my life. About how I’m actually doing. He didn’t call after the meet, didn’t check on me when I was sick, didn’t even acknowledge I didn’t come home for Thanksgiving. And now here he is, talking to me like I’m a product he’s invested in and not a living, breathing person. A person who’s only ever wanted him to look at them with something other than contempt and see them for the person they are and not the investment they represent.
“Dad,” I interrupt, surprising even myself. “I haven’t spoken to you in almost three weeks. Do you realize you didn’t even greet me? Or ask how I am?”
There’s a beat of silence before he huffs, annoyed. “I asked about your finals.”
“That’s not asking howIam,” I say, my voice shaking even though I’m trying to keep it steady. “That’s asking about my performance. My output. That’s not the same thing.”
There’s another pause. This one is cold. I can hear his exasperation.
“I don’t have time for this,” he says, clipped. “I have more important things on my agenda than to listen to you whine like a child. Even your mother isn’t this sensitive.
I breathe through the sting. “For your information, yeah, I feel fine about finals. Even Finance. And I’m feeling better after being sick, since you don’t seem to have noticed I missed Thanksgiving. And yes, I’ll still be ready for Friday despite dropping muscle mass during the week I was sick. Thanks for asking. Please don’t worry about coming to the dual against West Virginia, I do understand that you’re a very busy man.I sincerely hope you stay home and get updates from Coach instead of coming just to stare me down from the sidelines and berate me for not winning hard enough, no matter what I achieve.”
I’m not sure what my father is thinking about my uncharacteristic outburst, because I hang up on him before he has the chance to reply.
I hung up. On my father.
I stare at my phone like it might explode. Like Charles Beckett might suddenly teleport through the screen and throttle me right here and now. My pulse is hammering, my hands shaking, and the quad feels both too open and too empty.
I blink furiously at my phone screen as it goes black, then look up when I notice a shadow blocking some of the sunlight on the pathway.
Brody is standing right in front of me, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, eyes narrowed and thoughtful in that way he gets sometimes. Like I’m something to be studied and understood, a subject in experimental psychology and abnormal human behavior.
“Was that your dad?” he asks quietly. His voice is stiff, like he might be angry about me talking to my father of all people.
“Yes.”
He lets out a low whistle. “Wish I had recorded that for you to show Ms. Delia.”
Brody Miller mentioning my Ms. Delia does something funny to my stomach that crawls up my chest and settles there. Likeheartburn or something. Before I can help it, a smile spreads across my face.
“You know what, so do I.”
Brody’s eyes widen comically. “Beck?”
“Yeah?”
He swallows once, slowly, and looks back and forth at the people milling about around the quad. “Either we need to get somewhere private, or I’m going to kiss you right here in front of everyone.”
Oh.
Silence stretches between us, the air around us concentrating to a filtered bubble of time and space. My pulse races. Brody’s gaze drops to my throat like he can see it.
“My room,” he says suddenly, stepping forward and grabbing my wrist with a firm, sure grip. “Now.”
“What about your roommates?” I manage, stumbling after him.
“They’re in exams.”
We run across the quad and into his dorm, bumping shoulders as we sprint up two flights of stairs. The second the door to his dorm shuts behind us, Brody pushes me back against it, breath warm against my cheek.
