Page 78 of Asystole

I don’t expect him to answer. I always assume he’s doing something hella important, but apparently, this message warranted an immediate response.

Chase

WHAT?

Logan

Yup. She wanted to know if you could skip conference to come home early.

Am I stirring the pot a little? Yes. I don’t like her vibe. Kendra comes across as entitled, and I’ve never been a fan of that particular attitude. I like it even less when it means she’s adding to the list of people making demands on Chase’s already limited time.

Chase

Where is she now?

Logan

Shower.

Chase

Fuuuuuck. I’m so sorry, dude.

Logan

Doesn’t matter to me. You’re the one who has to sleep with her.

I grimace. I could have said literally anything else: share a room with her, entertain her, show her around. But no, I went straight for ‘sleep with her.’

Nice, Logan.

Trying to move on from my word choice, I fire off another text.

Logan

Could be a good thing. Maybe some time face-to-face will help you decide which direction to take things.

So much for not mentioning it until we’re on the road.

I stare at the screen until the shower stops running, but I don’t get another response and dread fills my chest.

When Kendra reemerges, she’s in jeans and—I suck on my tongue to prevent myself from lashing out—one of Chase’s long-sleeved medical school T-shirts, using a towel to dry her hair.

She just saunters in here and goes through his stuff like she fucking owns it.

“So, does Chase have his own side of the pantry or something?” she asks, tossing her wet towel over the back of one of the wooden kitchen chairs. Maybe that’s where Chase’s intolerance for wet towels on the floor comes from, I muse. “I don’t want to take your stuff, but I’m sure he at least has a Pop-Tart I can eat.”

“A Pop-Tart?” I repeat.

What is he, five?

“Yeah, you know, one of those toaster pastry things with the icing on them?” she explains condescendingly.

“I know what it is. Chase and I are grown men. We eat eggs and toast or smoothies for breakfast. No children’s pastries. And please don’t leave your wet towel on the back of the chair. It’ll ruin the finish.”

Kendra rips the towel from the back of the chair with far more attitude than necessary.

“Sorry. Where should I put it?”