Page 67 of Breakaway Hearts

I work in my room, and Jay only comes home to change (which he could have done at the rink) before rushing to a study group, making sure—multiple times—that I’ll be fine on my own for another hour. He doesn’t ask it like that, because he knows how much I’d hate it, but he’s worried.

It isn’t until he’s gone that I notice my water bottle on the counter, with that blue thermos beside it. I empty my water bottle and clean it thoroughly, debating a round in the dishwasher, but I know I’ll be using my spare for the next week or two anyway. I never leave my bottle unattended. Ever.

The thermos is on my mind. I go to empty it down the garburator, but it smells as good as it did earlier, and my cheeks flush, which I tell myself is from the spices and not some Pavlovian response to the memory of Owen’s lips on mine, of his hands all over my body, of his fingers…

I’m conflicted, even as I put the soup into a microwave-safe bowl and reheat it. I write a note saying I drank Owen’s soup before taking the first spoonful, in case Jay comes home and I’m passed out on the floor, so he knows who’s behind it. But I’m behind a locked door and an alarm system, so the damage would be minimal.

I hate that the soup is delicious. It reminds me of the one my mom makes whenever I’m sick. Not the same flavor profile, but the same feeling of warmth. Of being cared for. And a stupid, fluttery feeling at the thought of the boy who made it for me, that I almost wish was drugs.

Owen is messing with my studying, my sleeping…occupying thoughts I don’t want him to have, but the more I try not to, the more space he takes.

I need to get laid.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Madison

No harm, no foul

Idon’t sleep well, then wake up tangled in my sheets, flushed from a dream starring my least favorite Wolf. I need to find a release, and it just so happens that one of the kickboxing classes Savannah suggested starts in twenty minutes, so I get dressed, leave a note for Jay, and head to Main Street.

“You made it!” Savannah says brightly the second I walk through the door.

I was kind of hoping I wouldn’t have to deal with other people to punch things, but I try not to show it. And I’m not above pretending it’s too hard and ducking out to venture on my own if I have to.

“It’s been a stressful week,” I find myself admitting. “Classes,” I probably say too quickly.

“Tell me about it,” she agrees. “So many deadlines.”

I don’t think she’s lying, but she’s smiling like she loves it. I forget what she’s studying, but I’m pretty sure this is her last year.

“This is my friend, Bree. She also likes punching things.”

“Madison.” I give a tiny wave.

The instructor starts early, so I’m punching away and kicking at my problems in no time, which doesn’t quite help. I try picturing Owen’s face, but I find myself not wanting to punch him, which just makes me angrier, so I punch harder. I don’t think I’m ready to let out my anger at Trevor in front of innocent bystanders, so I picture the guys who lied when asked what happened, who blindly followed Trevor.

By the time the teacher tells us to get some water, I’m drenched, breathing heavy, and not sure if I want to scream or break down in tears.

“Pretty intense workout,” Savannah says, somewhat cautiously, while I gulp down half my bottle.

“Who’s head were you picturing?” Bree asks, coming over as well. Her blond hair is up in a ponytail that matches mine, but her clothes are loose and flowy. When she drinks, I see dried paint on her forearms.

“Owen Brooks.” I sigh. I don’t like lying, especially not to girls I might want to be friends with, but it’s easier than the truth, and he’s the reason I’m here.

“Oh no, what did he do?” Savannah asks in a tone that reminds me of my dad when my mom would tell him I got in trouble at school. A mixture of ‘do I need to punish her?’ and ‘my baby would never.’

“Nothing, he’s fine,” I take it back.

“He is, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be an asshole,” Bree assures me while Savannah shakes her head. “I’ve had to work out my frustrations with those boys multiple times.”

“Are you dating⁠—”

“No, never,” Bree doesn’t even let me finish my question. “I live next to the hockey house and some of them are manchildren who do what they want, then smile for forgiveness, which a lot of idiots fall for. What did Owen do?”

“Nothing. It’s not really him. It’s just…” I sigh again.

“You like him?” Savannah tries.