But I love the game. So I go when I can. Which means watching Tate be amazing on the ice and getting off to the memory of him kissing me. My body heats. He’s still playing his guitar next door. I’ll give him credit where credit’s due, he’s persistent.
“Nothing of consequence.”
“No boys on the scene yet?”
I swallow down a groan, but I don’t hold back my eye roll. “Nope.” The less said about that, the better. How is it that parents always know the exact thing to ask to maximize discomfort from their kids?
Another lingering pause. I can tell he wants to ask about mom, but also doesn’t. He still loves her, still wishes things were different, and still resents her for moving on with her life when his fell apart.
My relationship with her often feels even more strained than with Dad, but with my college work load, it’s hard to process trauma, heal, and work on repairing relationships with both parents. I’m doing my best.
It’s another ten minutes of small talk before I feel like I can hang up on him, and when I do, he assures me we’ll talk again soon. I heave out a huge sigh when I hang up, like the pieces of me I was holding back can finally breathe.
Each call with him, each interaction gets better, but it’s still challenging. I shoot off a text to Oli calling him a butthead and telling him to check in when he comes up for air. He swore going to different colleges wouldn’t be that big of a deal, but I miss him. Seeing him every day was annoying, boys are annoying, but now he’s in a different state... half of me is missing.
When my phone rings again, my stomach tightens. Did Dad forget to tell me something? Or is Oliver picking this very moment to catch up?
I pick up my phone to find an unknown number staring back at me. “Hello?”
“I’m downstairs with your food.”
A cloud of red mist descends over my body. Bolting upright in the bed, I grit my teeth. That piece of shit next door has done it again. It’s barely been an hour. A fucking hour. And he’s already ordered another round of food for me to deliver.
Not this time, bucko. You just bought me an early dinner.
Clearly, it’s deliberate.
Hockey players might be bottomless pits that constantly shovel food in their mouths but I saw the amount of pie Tate ordered from Megan in Get the Fork Out. He’s deliberately being a jerk, he got a rise out of my reaction the first time, and he figured he’d do it again just to spite me.
I’ll show him.
I make my way down to the door, tip the guy—because it’s not his fault the person who ordered my dinner is a cock—and bring it back upstairs, pausing to snag some silverware and napkins on my way past the kitchenette on my floor.
There’s no restaurant name on the plain, white plastic bag, but the smell that meets my nose as I walk makes my mouth water. It’s like dinner Christmas without the gift wrap. I have no idea what delicious treats I’m about to enjoy, but the first box houses pad Thai.
My favorite.
I fuckingloveThai food, and he picked a winner.
I waste no time digging in, savoring the delicious nutty taste as I chew slowly. Thai food is amazing. Thai food stolen from an asshole sociopath neighbor—who may not be any of those thingsbut I’m definitely not entertaining that thought for a single nanosecond—is the best meal of my life.
The chicken is juicy and tender, the beansprouts still have a great crunch to them despite the steam in the container, and the sweet salty tang of flavor exploding in my mouth with each bite is divine.
I make extra loud yummy noises as I eat, on the off chance thatsomeonecan hear me through the wall. “This is just so good.” I’m praising my food out loud. The guitar playing stops. So I make more delicious noises.
It’s another few minutes before there’s a knock on my door. I don’t rush to answer it. Cradling the pad Thai in one hand, I saunter to the door, pulling it open with noodles still hanging from my mouth for dramatic effect.
If there’s any doubt as to what I’m eating right now, the guy’s an idiot.
“Where’s my—?” Tate takes one look at my face, and a myriad of emotions flicker across his face. Surprise, anger, hell, I think part of him is even impressed that I had the balls to follow through.
“You stole my dinner.”
I shrug. “Oh.” I flutter my eyelids, sucking in the noodles with a loud ‘pop’ like I’m the main character of the Lady and the Tramp movie. “This is yours?” I wave the box under his nose so he gets a whiff of the intensely delicious smell emanating from the tub. “I figured someone sent me dinner. Especially since you had half the pie in Cedar Rapids delivered only an hour ago.” I lean heavily into the cynicism of him having already had food sent to him.
“It was... uh... for my teammate.”
I don’t believe him. His excuse is weak, at best. There’s no way it was for anyone else, and the mirth dancing in his eyes tells me I’m right.
