“Yeah, don’t remind me, bro.” Dylan’s dad is one of our assistant coaches, and he’s definitely tougher on Dylan than the rest of the team, which is saying something, because Coach Neal is a hardass. I’m lucky I spend most of my time with Elbin, the pitching coach. I’d have a constant headache if it was Coach Neal in my ear all season.
Dylan pops open the tab on his beer and takes a swig. The front door opens again, signaling the arrival of Xavier. He comes strolling into the kitchen and nods at us, me sitting at the table with my notebook and laptop, and Dylan leaning against the counter gulping down his beer. I watch him from the corner of my eye. Is he going to say anything about seeing me in the gym?
“Missed quite the party last night,” Zay says to me, no inclination that he’d already said those words to me just a few hours earlier.
“I heard.” I tap my pen on my open textbook.
“Thought you said you were gonna come out.” Zay eyes me and then pulls two more beers out of the fridge. He’s gonna pretend we didn’t see each other. Thank fuck.
“Yeah,” I shrug, “wasn’t feelin’ it.”
“Were you feelin’ Talia?” Dylan jokes, and jabs Xavier’s shoulder. Zay just brushes him off, hands me a beer, and heads toward the living room.
“Nah.” That’s all I give him, but flash him the suggestive smirk I know he’s expecting. I let them think what they want. I play into it, sure, but the assumptions are theirs.
“Then it was that little punk rock pixie emo chick.” I choke on my beer. Dylan’s sporting a smug grin and lifts his eyebrows as if he’s uncovered a huge secret. “The one with the green hair and the bike.”
I can feel Zay’s eyes on me when I set my beer down and hit Dylan with a glare. “How do you know about her?”
“Saw her leaving last weekend at like four in the morning. At first, I thought I was drunk and seeing things.” He snorts, and my heart kicks up. “Like a little fairy sprite skipping across our lawn and climbing onto a fucking motorcycle.”
“Fairies and sprites are basically the same thing,” Xavier says from the couch.
“Shut up, dude. You know what I mean. She’s tiny and has green hair.”
“It’s turquoise,” I say without thinking, which makes Zay and Dylan swing their attention back on me. Dylan is smirking like an ass and Zay just looks...bored. Like usual. “What? It’s turquoise. Learn your fucking colors”
“So, you are boning her.” Dylan is such a douche. “No worries, dude. We won’t tell Talia. Bro code.”
“Past tense,” I say, my irritation with Bailey from yesterday making a powerful resurgence. She’s read all my texts but hasn’t responded. “Boned. She’s old news.” The words taste bitter on my tongue, and it takes all my strength to keep my smirk from turning into a scowl.
“Dick down and dash,” Dylan raises his beer in salute. “My man.”
I smirk and shrug, but Zay butts in. “Sounds like she was the one dashing.”
I send a glare his way, but he’s not even looking at me. He still looks bored, his attention now on the flat screen as he skims through channels.
When Dylan cracks up laughing, I decide I’ve had enough.
“I’m out.” I start gathering my shit and shoving it back into my backpack.
“Bro, it’s only eight.”
“Tired,” I huff, and walk to the stairs.
“I bet Talia’s tired too,” Dylan calls from behind me, but I ignore his dumb ass and head up to my room.
I drop my backpack on my desk chair—no use trying to study now—and head into my en-suite bathroom for a shower. Perks of my dad owning the townhouse—I get the master. I’m going to shower and pass out. I’m over this weekend.
I’mjolted awake by my phone, the ringtone I saved for my mom sounding from it loudly. I take a breath, momentarily paralyzed, and then give my head a shake. She didn’t call yesterday, I remind myself. She’s checking in. I grab the phone and answer.
“Maman?”
“Mon étoile.” Her lilting voice greets me, and I slowly release my breath.
“Hi, Mom,” I say with a smile. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine, darling. How are you?” She dodges the question, but I won’t press. This is a call for happy news.
“Good, good. I’ve got a surprise.”
“Oooh, do tell.” I can hear the excitement in her faint French accent, and it’s almost enough to hide the slight slurring.
“Remember how I told you I was entering that baking contest? The one for that café on campus?”
“Bien sûr.”
“Well, I made the palets de dames aux raisons that you like. I used your recipe.”
She ooohhs softly and I can tell she’s pleased. It makes me smile and my heart swell. I love her happy.
“And how did you do?”