“That’s more like it.” He reaches for the radio, then pauses, his finger hovering over the power button. “Mind if I crank some road tunes?”
“Go for it. I’m gonna close my eyes, unless you want me to stay awake and keep you company.”
“Nah, I’m good. I’ll let you get your beauty sleep. It’s the least I can do after keeping you up all night.”
Adam hits the power button and flicks through the radio stations until the familiar opening guitar riff of AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck” fills the tiny Civic. I rest my head against the seat back and close my eyes, relieved that I’ve dodged another bullet and the subject of my family is closed for the time being.
I’m not sure how long I’m asleep before I hear Adam softly calling my name and feel his hand gently nudging my shoulder.
“Hey, Rip Van Winkle,” he says, nudging me again. “We’re home. Or you are. We’re outside your dorm.”
I sit up—somehow, I’ve managed to wedge my head between the seat and the window—and blink, rubbing my eyes. It’s dark outside, the only light from the street lamps and the stars.
“What time is it?” I ask. This time of year, it could be six or it could be midnight. The drive from Rhode Island to Burlington should have taken five hours, but I don’t know if we hit any postholiday traffic while I was sacked out.
Adam checks the clock on the dashboard, which I guess I could have done if I wasn’t so out of it. “Almost ten.”
I frown and yawn, stretching my arms up until my palms are pressed to the roof of the car. Holy shish kabobs, I’m stiff. And not in a good way. I guess sleeping in a car for hours will do that to you. “I thought the plan was for us to stay at the hockey house tonight?”
Given the choice, we usually stay there. Adam’s king-size bed is bigger and more comfortable than my dorm-issue twin. And I like hanging out with the team.
Shocking, right? Trust me, no one’s more surprised about that than me. Given my prior experience with the jock set, I was understandably nervous about how I’d fit in with Adam’s teammates. But the guys quickly put those fears to rest. They’re a pretty cool bunch.
Well, with one notable exception. But fortunately, Slags doesn’t live at the hockey house, and he doesn’t spend a lot of time there, either.
Adam pulls the key out of the ignition—this box on wheels is so old it doesn’t have a keyless start like most newer models—and shoves it into his pocket. “You’ve got RA duty first thing in the morning, right? I figured it would be easier for you if we slept here. That way you don’t have to wake up as early.”
We.The sweetest word in the English language.
I reach across the console, palm the back of his head, and pull it to me. Then I kiss him. It’s hard, hot, and demanding, both an expression of gratitude and a declaration to the world that this man is mine, all mine.
“What was that for?” he asks when I finally release him.
“Taking care of me, even when I forget to take care of myself.” I pull him back for one more fast, bruising kiss. “Especiallywhen I forget to take care of myself.”
He hits a button on the door to unlock the trunk. “Then I’d better get you inside before you freeze to death.”
We grab our bags and race inside, our breath hanging in the air like icy puffs of smoke. We’re laughing and panting as we sprint up the stairs to the second floor. But my laughter dies in my throat when we step out of the stairwell and into the hallway and I see someone sitting on the floor, slumped against my door.
At first, I can’t tell whether it’s a male or female. Heck, I can’t tell whether they’re alive or dead. I assume it’s one of my residents, waiting for me to mediate yet another roommate dispute. Or passed out from a night on the town.
But then the figure stirs—thank fudge—rises, and pulls off her navy blue knit beanie, setting free a wild tumble of reddish-brown curls I recognize instantly.
“Kolby Cakes,” she says, running toward me.
“Hannah Banana,” I reply almost automatically, the childhood nickname falling easily from my lips.
She leaps at me, and I drop my bag and catch her, pulling her in to a hug. I have so many questions. Why is my sister here? How did she get all the way from Utah to Vermont? Do our parents know where she is and, more importantly, who she’s with?
But for the moment I’ll just enjoy the fact that for the first time since my parents kicked me out, Hannah and I are in the same zip code, sharing the same air, squeezing the living daylights out of each other in a desperate attempt to make up for almost three years in one embrace.
“What are you doing here?” I ask when I finally put her down.
“It’s a long story.” She glances over my shoulder at Adam. “But I think you should introduce me to your friend first.”
The way she says “friend” tells me she’s probably already guessed that he’s more than that. But unlike my parents, Hannah has no problem with me dating dudes. She was the first person I came out to, and the only one who knew about me and Layton right from the start of our so-called relationship.
I motion for Adam to join us. He does, and I throw an arm around his shoulders in a way that makes it clear, if it wasn’t before, that we are so not in the friend zone. Adam reciprocates by planting a kiss on the underside of my jaw, and there’s a strange, fluttery sensation in my chest.
