CHAPTER 30
ABBY
I can’t stop watching out the front window of our crappy student rental, waiting anxiously for that familiar white Tahoe to pull into the gravel driveway.
“Watching out the window on the couch like a damn cat isn’t going to get her here any faster,” Jenna points out sympathetically from the kitchen while wielding a cast-iron pan. She’s been frying up pot stickers for the past twenty minutes and is totally stinking up the joint.
My nose scrunches up as I sniff the air. “Can you light a candle or something? It’s starting to reek in here.”
Rolling her eyes, Jenna goes back to her task, unscrewing a bottle and shaking a generous helping of soy sauce into the pan. It sizzles and sears, and I can see the steam rising from my spot by the window.
A popping sound whizzes.
“Oops,” I overhear her mutter. “I don’t think that was supposed to happen.”
I crane my neck to catch a glimpse of her at the stove, waving a hand in front of her face. “What are you doing in there? You’re going to burn the house down.”
“Then I would be doing our landlord a huge favor. And don’t come in here!” Jenna sticks her head in the living room from around the corner. “Um, incidentally, where do we keep the fire extinguisher? A friend of a friend wants to know.”
I roll my eyes and look back out the window. “Cabinet under the sink.”
“We’re going out tonight, right?”
“Yes!” I shout, pulling back the curtain again and flying off the couch when the familiar white SUV appears around the corner.
“Was that a yes, we’re going out tonight—or a yes, hooray, my friends are finally here?” Jenna questions over the loud hissing of the pot stickers. I hear coughing and watch as she flaps a kitchen towel through the air and the smoke alarm begins blaring. “Crap!”
“Both!” I laugh. “Yes to both.”
There are no words to accurately articulate how jazzed/elated/pumped/excited I am to have my best friend in town. Granted, she’s dragged her overbearing, vulgar, live-in boyfriend along, but beggars can’t be choosers, and occasionally, Matthew Wakefield isn’t all that bad.
Except for one small fact: like his UW-Madison Alma Mater progeny, the hulky professional hockey player loves Lone Rangers.
So that’s where we end up.
And instead of it being a Girls’ Night Out or a reunion between two best friends, the night has inexplicably transformed into a hockey player reunion between Matthew and his buddies.
Messages sent out. Texts exchanged. Statuses checked-in. Tweets Twittered. What do you get? A crap ton of people piled into a tiny, dilapidated dive bar, probably violating thirty different health codes and restrictions.
The elation I felt having Cece and Matthew in town has turned into reticence because I know with certainty, just like I know Caleb’s hair is black and the sky is blue, that I’m going to see him tonight.
Full disclosure: I don’t just know I’m going to see Caleb tonight, I hope I’m going to see him. Call me a glutton for punishment, but I would never—in a million years—have slept with him if I didn’t care about him.
And you don’t just stop caring about someone overnight. Or because they mistreat you. Emotions aren’t just a switch you turn on and off.
I stare at my reflection in the woman’s bathroom mirror at Lone Rangers from my place in the tiny room as I wait for Cece to pee, holding the stall door closed for her because it doesn’t latch.
“Stop fidgeting. I can see you through the crack. Quit playing with your hair,” Cecelia teases from inside the stall, and I hear the toilet paper dispenser rolling.
It’s incredible to have her back in town, even if she is scolding me.
“Sorry, I can’t help it,” I say, turning to peek at her through the gap. She sticks her tongue out at me as she zips up her jeans and buckles her belt. I twist my body, leaning my back against the stall door. “Did I tell you that Cubby Billings sent me a message?”
“What?” Cecelia’s surprised gasp wafts over the top of the stall. “No way!”
“Yes way. It was actually kinda funny, sort of. He texted saying he was sorry for invading my privacy and his mama raised him with better manners. But in his defense, the door to Caleb’s bedroom was unlocked.”
Cecelia snickers, chagrined. “Okayyyy.”
“He went on to say next time he needed Caleb, he would knock first. Then, of course, he ruined the apology by telling me I shouldn’t be embarrassed because I have a really nice rack.”
“Yup, that sounds like pure Cubby.”
“It was nice to get a message from him though. Totally unexpected.”
“At least he’s trying?” Cece raps on the door with her knuckle, and I release it, stepping back so she can exit the stall and head to the sink. She glances at me over her shoulder as she scrubs her hands and pulls down a piece of brown paper towel. “You know, many a relationship was solidified in this seedy establishment, and the night is young.”