“Yeah, it’s fine,” he assures me.
I’m still hesitant, but I feel too awkward explaining why, so I keep my mouth shut and take off toward my house. It’s only a few houses past the walking path which is why I take it, but the closer we get, the more antsy I get.
We sort of have a ‘no boys in the house’ rule, it’s just that it normally only applies to my mom. I haven’t gone on anything like a date yet. Mom does, but she doesn’t bring “boys” around unless she’s super serious about them. It has only happened with two guys in my whole life, so generally “no boys allowed” is gospel in our home.
I linger on the front porch, fidgeting with my fingers, then I clear my throat and turn back to Hunter. “My key’s in my bag, so I need it back now.”
He swings it off his shoulder and hands it back to me. I meet his gaze for a moment, feeling strangely naked as his brown eyes bore into me, then I abruptly drop it to dig in my backpack for my house key.
“Um, thank you for bringing it all this way,” I tell him.
“No problem.”
He still isn’t budging or taking what I feel are very obvious vibes that I don’t want to invite him in. It feels rude telling him he can’t come inside after he carried my heavy, broken backpack all this way, so I shove down my reluctance, unlock the door, and push it open.
Hunter follows me inside, looking around our smallish home. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms, just as much space as we need. It’s not big by any means, but it suits two girls living alone.
I don’t know Hunter Maxwell, but I do know his mom is a former model who has been divorced twice—and the town gossips say each divorce added a lot to the fortune she had already amassed on her own.
“Your house is probably bigger than mine,” I say, needing to break the silence.
Hunter nods, still looking around. “Little bit.”
I nod, easing my backpack to the ground. “Do you have any younger brothers or sisters?”
Now he shakes his head. “Nope. Just me. My mom and husband number three talked about having a baby, but I think they’re headed for a divorce instead.”
“Aw, that sucks. I’m sorry.”
With an indifferent shrug, he says, “I’m not. I hate that guy.”
“Oh. Well, then I guess I’m not sorry.” Looking around for something to make me feel less awkward, I catch sight of the kitchen. “Come with me.”
Hunter follows me slowly, but now that I have a mission, I’m more comfortable. I open the freezer and take out a bag of frozen corn for Hunter’s eye. I point to a wooden chair by the table, gesturing for him to sit. Hunter flips it around backward, then straddles the chair instead of sitting on it like a normal person.
I crack a smile that he even has to sit like a cool kid. I bring the bag of corn over and hand it to him so he can press it against his eye.
“Is your mom married?” he asks, apparently continuing the conversation I sought to escape.
“Uh, no. She’s never been married.”
“Not even to your dad?”
I shake my head. “She was 17 when she got pregnant with me, and I guess my dad wasn’t exactly marriage material. Not father material either, I guess.”
“You never met him?”
“A few times, but I was a baby. I remember him being there once when I was two, but that’s the only memory I have of him. Me and my mom moved away a year later and I haven’t seen him since.”
“I never see my dad either. He was engaged to someone else when my mom got pregnant, and I guess they still got married, so… you know, he has a real family and they’re not eager to embrace me.”
“I’m sorry,” I say softly. “That’s not really fair. It’s not like it’s your fault.”
Hunter shrugs. “Life’s not fair. I don’t worry too much about it. I figure if he doesn’t even want to see me, I can’t be missing much.”
I nod my head in firm agreement. “I think that’s a good way to look at it.”
“As long as my life coach approves,” he jokes.
We share a smile—the warm, genuine, unguarded kind, and it makes my heart happy.
This time, he appears to be the one made uncomfortable; he drops my gaze and clears his throat. “Thanks for this, by the way,” he says, tapping the bag of corn he’s holding against his eye.
“No problem,” I assure him, dropping onto the chair nearest his. “How’d that happen?”
“How’d your backpack break?” he fires back.
I quirk an eyebrow. “That wasn’t an answer. That wasn’t even a smooth segue.”
“I think it was pretty smooth.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Little bit,” he insists.