Adler waves at me on their way out. Owen stews in silence. I can practically see the steam billowing out of his ears.
Violet might be right. Owen doesn’t want Adler anywhere near me. For reasons I don’t care to examine, that thought makes me smile.
Chapter Eleven
Owen
I lie on my couch, feet on the armrest and facing the ceiling. That lunch was fucking exhausting in a way practice rarely is.
“It was just a cannoli,” I tell Shutout. “Cannolis aren’t sexy.”
It’s not about the cannoli, and I know it. It’s about everything that came with it. The way she looked at me, the way she didn’t look away, like she wasn’t waiting for me to screw it up.
Shutout, who is flopped on the floor beside the couch, whines.
“I’m notthatdesperate for affection, anyway. Remy’s nice. She’s attentive. She listens to me. But so what? I mean,you’renice, andyoulisten to me. Hell, I could be describing a houseplant right now. I’m lonely, that’s all.”
That’s the easiest explanation. The safest one. It keeps this from being something I actually have to think about.
Shutout makes a tragic noise from somewhere to my right.
“Is she attractive? Yes, obviously.” I wave my hand in the air. “Did I want to murder Adler for hitting on her? Obviously. Because it’s creepy. He’s a creep.I,Shutout, am not a creep. I can watch a hot, kind woman eat a vaguely phallic cream-filled dessert without making it weird.”
I scrub a hand over my face and lean against the couch cushions. “Besides, I’ve never really understood how guys separate sex from everything else anyway. Probably comes from being raised by a single mom. I see a woman I respect, and my brain immediately starts trying to build a life around her.”
Shutout sneezes in my general direction.
“Exactly. Thank you. Very helpful.”
At least, that’s what I’m telling myself. Or maybe it’s not about him at all. Maybe it’s about the fact that he’s saying the things I don’t get to say.
Shutout’s toenails scrape against the hardwood as he climbs to his feet. He sticks his head over the side of the couch, blowing hot dog-breath in my ear.
“Ew, dude. Gross.” I try to push him away, but he’s pretty strong for an old dog, and his tongue is ridiculously long. It unfurls enough for him to slurp into my ear canal.
“Fuckin’nasty,Shutout!” I push him away. Shutout, of course, decides that this is a fun new game and pushes against my palms. Pretty soon, he’s clambering up onto the couch to do his version of being a lap dog, though he’s functionally more like a gangly, stinky weighted blanket.
I give up and accept my fate as the human pillow. This is easier. Dogs don’t expect anything from you except what you’re already willing to give. Once he’s comfortably ensconced on me, I pet his ears the way he likes. In two minutes flat, he’s snuffling and twitching while he chases rabbits in his sleep.
In the quiet that follows, my mind wanders to the problem of Remy. Except she’s not the problem. I am. Watching her go down on that cannoli—no, goddamnit,chowdown… Lord, she really went to town on that thing. Clearly, I have not gotten laid in too damn long if a dessert is enough to get me hot and bothered.
Aw, who the hell am I kidding? It was never about the dessert. It was about the way she exists in a room and somehow makes everything else feel secondary. It was Remy. Remy, who is so lovely and outgoing and who didn’t mace Adler for that hip thrusting bullshit he was doing at lunch, even though he fucking deserves it. What the hellwasthat, anyway? Is that his version of putting the moves on her?
Not that I did much better. Even now, I feel like I can hardly say two words to her. Which is ridiculous, considering I spend most of my life barking orders at grown men on the ice.
“Adler’s an idiot,” I tell Shutout, neglecting to mention my own shortcomings.
My dog wags his tail in agreement, which smacks my thigh in dangerous territory, uncomfortably close to my junk.
“Okay, nope, we’re not doing this.” I nudge Shutout aside and slide him to the floor, prompting him to let out a shrill wail thatdefinitelystrays into beagle territory. I make sure not to jostle his old bones too much and nearly take a paw to the family jewels for my troubles.
Once I’m finally extricated from the big goober, I head upstairs to noodle around on my guitar for a bit. I’m not very good, but it’s nice to have something I do just for the hell of it, without any hint of competitiveness.
Usually, goofing around with my music relaxes me. Today, every time I start to play a song, I realize I’m playing alovesong. Like something in me is trying to tell me what I’m not willing to admit out loud.
“Come the fuck on,” I say to my own traitorous hands after I start playing “I Want You to Want Me”for the third time. Okay, music isn’t helping. It’s just that I need something to do with my hands, or I’m going to think about Remy licking powdered sugar from her lips again. And then I’m going to do something stupid like imagine her on her knees, her face poised between my thighs, looking up at me with her big green eyes while she swallows my—
“Nope.” I leap up from the stool and return my guitar to its display stand. At least when my hands were betraying me, it didn’t feel so damn good. Now that my groin has joined the list of traitors, it’s harder to think about anything else.
