“Kind of. When it’s nice out, she’ll read on the patio. We watch TV more, though. In the movie theater room. Do you want to see it?”
Augie turned to him, a realization blooming: This house was probably the nicest house Chat had ever visited. While it ranked high on Augie’s list, and while it was probably one of the more unique, well-designed homes she’d been in, movie theater rooms no longer impressed her. She didn’t care to see the Crawleys’. It was odd to think that although she’d never be a true Aldon Lakes person, the town had become part of her. She hoped this didn’t make her a snob, too.
She told him she’d love to see the theater room.
“This way.” Chat grabbed her hand, surprising her—and energy singed between their palms.
The basement was as massive as the main floor. A slick, see-through black fireplace divided the space, with a pool table on one side and a bar on the other. Chat dropped her hand as he walked toward a wall of bookshelves, pushing it open, a secret door.
“Wild, right?” He held it open like an overly enthusiastic tour guide.
The movie room was typical: reclining love seats, stadium seating, framed movie posters. Leah’s was nicer. Augie told him it was awesome.
“Do you want another drink? Anything to eat?” He leaned against the edge of the pool table, something vulnerable seeping into his voice. He finished the last of his drink and set his mug on the table’s edge. “Sorry. I’m not used to having houseguests. I hope I’m not being a bad host.”
Augie leaned against the table next to him, matching his pose. She turned to him and had another realization: Chat might be more nervous than she was.
“Are the boys okay? They’re asleep, right? They won’t hear us?”
“Oh, no, don’t worry.” Chat raised his wrist, his Apple watch. “Ihave this connected to Max’s monitor. They’re way, way up there. On the third floor.” He pointed to the ceiling. “They’re so far away, it’s like we’re not even breaking the rules.”
Augie studied his blush. Now, she wasn’t sure if he was more flustered about breaking rules or by his feelings for her.
“Let’s have another.” Augie nodded toward the bar.
Chat stood up and reached for her mug, and his fingers brushed hers in another zap of electricity.
He walked to the counter and pulled out a barstool for her before going behind the bar. Then, as Augie settled at the counter, he leaned forward on two hands and asked for her ID.
Augie laughed, and the joke—along with being settled at the bar—made their dynamic feel more natural. Augie could tell they both felt better as they talked and Chat mixed drinks. They reminisced about high school parties, college memories, about the time Chat refilled an entire bottle of his parents’ Jack Daniel’s with apple juice and his sister called him out. He also told Augie about the time half his senior class got busted drinking at a back-to-school party, and aside from the guy who hid in the washing machine for six hours, Chat was the only one who got off scot-free. It had been hockey season, he explained, and because he was the captain, he had only been pretending to drink.
“I felt so bad when the cops did the Breathalyzer and it blew zero. My friends were like, what the hell!” Chat scooped ice from the freezer. “I’d already locked in a hockey scholarship, though. I couldn’t risk losing it. My dad would’ve killed me.” He held a drink out to Augie. “Here, the house special.”
“Also known as a vodka cran?” Augie took a sip.
“I can’t say I’m the most skilled bartender.” He smiled and sat next to her on a stool. For the first time, Augie tried to pretend they wereon a real date. Still, she couldn’t stop thinking about the Crawleys. She was more curious than ever.
“Do you miss hockey?” she said, steering the conversation. “Do the boys like hockey?”
“Nah, I wish. Bill’s pushing golf instead. Not that it’s really sticking...”
“And Mrs. Crawley?” Augie paused, lifting her drink to her lips. “Does she like hockey?”
Chat studied her, hesitating. “Um, yeah, actually.” He wiped the side of his mug. “But I mostly miss playing as a kid, as sad as that sounds. I loved playing out on the pond every winter. It was more fun when it wasn’t so serious, you know? In college, there was a lot of pressure, and then between my injury and COVID, I don’t know.” He paused, cracked his thumb knuckles.
“But like I said, it all turned out okay. Getting hurt was both the worst and best thing that’s happened to me. And here, see this?” He pulled up his T-shirt sleeve, revealing a tattoo of a bubble-letter number thirteen. “I got hurt on Friday the thirteenth, and my jersey number was also thirteen. Ironic, right?”
He held his sleeve up, and slowly, Augie reached out to touch his arm. With one finger, she traced the outline of each digit, then rested her whole palm against his bicep, covering the art completely. She watched goose bumps rise over his skin.
Their faces were closer now.
“So”—he cleared his throat—“when I see this number, I can either think about it negatively, like that was the day my life plan went up in smoke, or I can see it and think, ‘That was one chapter. It’s all part of the story.’” He exhaled, and Augie slid her hand down his bicep to the crook above his elbow.
“I know it’s kind of dumb”—he shifted in his seat; her touch hadstirred something in both of them, she felt it—“but it reminds me of the power of perception. Taking control of your own mind.”
“I get it.” Augie was certain that later, she’d replay this moment. She still held his arm.
“The whole thing was pretty unremarkable, too, if you can believe it. It was only this other guy and me. We were at center ice, and his shoulder clipped my jaw, and that was it. I collapsed. It wasn’t some bloody mess, some big dramatic event. I don’t even think he got a penalty. It was just unlucky. Friday the thirteenth.”
