"Don't I?"
He gives me a pointed look, and I frown. “Care to share, Fucker?”
He claps me on the shoulder, and I take a small joy in knowing I’m slimy with sweat and sunscreen. “I’m just saying it sucks being with someone under … shady circumstances.” With that mysterious truth bomb, Tucker pulls slightly ahead as we crest the hill. I can see the wildflowers and benches near the row of parked cars. "It starts to feel bad all the time, and you internalize that shit. You know?"
I hate that I do.
"Lena's not like that," I say, though I'm unsure why I'm defending her in this context. We're not actually dating.
"No, she's not." Tucker slows as we approach the end of our route. "Which is why you need to figure out what you're doing. Before someone gets hurt, and I mean that both emotionally and professionally, bro.”
We stop at the park entrance, both of us breathing hard. Tucker takes a long drink from his water bottle, then fixes me with a serious look.
"Just don't fuck this up, A. She seems cool. Too cool to be your 'summer fling.' And she fixed my tooth.” He flaps his fake tooth up and down for emphasis.
"I got it, okay? Message received." I'm sweaty, tired, and in no mood for more twin wisdom. "I'll talk to her."
Tucker nods, apparently satisfied. "Good." He checks his watch. "Gotta go. Breakfast with my summer fling."
I flip him off as he jogs backward down the street, laughing at his joke. Asshole.
The drive back to the townhouse gives me time to think, though I'm not sure it helps. Tucker's right about one thing—I need to figure out what I'm doing with Lena. The problem is that I have no idea what I want from her or this arrangement.
I shouldn’t be looking for anything like this when I’m raw. I should be focused on hockey.
But when I walk through the door, Lena is pouring coffee into a travel mug in the kitchen. She's dressed for work, hair pulled back, looking impossibly put-together and really fucking hot, even in scrubs.
"Morning," she says, her tone carefully neutral. "Coffee's fresh."
"Thanks." I hover awkwardly by the counter. "About last night?—"
"We don't have to talk about it right now." She glances at her watch. "I need to get to the facility. Banksy is coming in this morning for scans.”
"Right." I shift from one foot to the other, suddenly acutely aware that I'm sweaty and she's immaculate. "I'll see you later? Maybe I can cook dinner?”
She hesitates, then nods. "Sure. That sounds nice.”
As she grabs her bag and heads for the door, I'm struck by how much I want to reach out, stop her, say... something. But what?Sorry, I told my family we're having a meaningless fling? Sorry, I kissed you and pretended it didn't matter? Sorry, I have no idea what I'm doing?
The door closes behind her, and I'm left alone with my coffee and confusion.
CHAPTER 17
LENA
My drive towork is fraught this morning. Part of me wants to clear the air after last night, but another part is grateful for the breathing room. Our conversation on the porch settled some things but left others deliberately vague.
Partners. That's what we'd agreed to be. But partners in what, exactly? We aren’t even really doing anything to get revenge on our exes. And I’ve made absolutely zero progress freeing myself from my lease.
My phone rings in the distinctive tone I've assigned to my mother. For a moment, I consider putting it to voicemail, but that would only delay the inevitable.
"Hello, Mom."
"Lena! I was beginning to think you were avoiding me." Her voice has the artificial brightness she uses when building up to criticism.
"Just busy with the new job." I cradle the phone between ear and shoulder, taking a swig of my coffee.
"Yes, the new job." A pause. "And the new boyfriend."
