“Mom, I’m only going to say this once. Paul Cotterman is a sick man who tried to touch me inappropriately, with physical force, in a classroom that I later found out was locked. I punched him—hard. And you should be proud that you raised a daughter who not only knew what to do, but has the physical strength to beat her way out of a nightmare,” I say, stopping for a breath before launching into my disappointment in her. But she interrupts me, halts me, and then kills me dead.
“Cass, are you sure this wasn’t like that thing with Kyle Loftman last spring?” Her question leaves me breathless. My father told her, told her everything. And I’m sure she told Paige. My secrets are not so secret.
I don’t say anything else, and the sensation of my phone in my hand, against my ear, suddenly feels burning hot. I pull it to my lap and look at it; the text reads MOM to identify who I’m talking to.
“Cass? Are you there, honey?” I can hear her voice mutter from my lap. I stare at the phone though, don’t pick it back up to continue our conversation. “Cass? Cassidy? Cass?”
She sounds like she’s in a box—so I close it, and press my finger to the END CALL button. I put the ringer on vibrate, so I don’t have to hear it loudly.
I wait for Ty. I need Ty. I love Ty.
Ty will make this all okay.
Ty
“Dude, so she bought you floor seats? For the Thunder game?” I’m looking at the tickets, holding them in my hand. They don’t even have row numbers on them. They just say VIP and then a string of letters. I’m officially jealous of my brother.
“Third-row, but close,” he grins at me. He should grin—turns out Rowe is even cooler than I thought.
My brother’s birthday is this week, and Rowe surprised him with the tickets after their prom experience. I didn’t bother to tell him about my prom, because I knew there was no way his could compare.
I haven’t stopped thinking about Cass since she slept in my arms last night. I couldn’t get back from workouts fast enough, and when I left the gym, I went right to her room. Rowe came home an hour later, and I got a feeling she wanted some time with Cass, so I came here. But I wanted to stay there. I would have stayed there all night, again—every night.
She didn’t buy me floor seats to the Thunder game, but what she gave me…it was so much more. I’m not very eloquent at talking about feelings. I don’t really know what to say. I’m good at honesty, and at calling people on bullshit. But I need to say something to Cass.
I need to say a lot of things to Cass.
“So, can I have them back?” Nate startles me. I’m still holding his tickets.
“Oh, yeah, sorry,” I say, handing them back. He takes them slowly, one brow arched suspiciously.
“Just like that? No joke or maneuver to hork my tickets, or make fun of me, or say something about how if Rowe really had good taste, she’d take you to the game instead?” he asks.
“Well, while that last part is very much a true statement, no bro. I’m just glad you’ve finally met a girl worth all of your fine Preeter qualities,” I say, turning my attention to the TV remote, switching the channel to ESPN. “And hork is a stupid word. Don’t say it anymore. It’s not even in the dictionary.” I move toward my bed and pull myself up, my back leaning against the wall. It’s Sunday Night Football, and Dallas is playing.
“That’s…it?” Nate says, standing in the way of my view. I dodge his head, trying to catch the stats on the bottom of the screen, but miss something about someone who’s injured for the Browns, probably my fantasy-team running back.
“Yes, that’s it. Move your fucking head,” I say.
Nate laughs, then sits on his bed and pulls the tab on a soda. The noise is irritating. His sipping is irritating. He’s staring at me still, and that’s irritating.
“Dude, are you trying to make me punch you?” I ask. He grins, then pulls the soda can from his mouth. “What?” I shrug.
“You’re in love. With Cass,” he says, and my stomach cinches tight. Instead of dignifying that with the guilty face I’m making on the inside, I turn my attention back to the TV.
“Toss me a Coke?” I’m avoiding. I’m completely avoiding this. Not going to touch it.
“Sure,” he says, and I feel relief that he’s bending down to pull a soda from the mini fridge. Moving on, yes…good. We’re moving on. “Have you told her yet?” Not moving on.
This time, I don’t look away from the TV. I can hear the way my breath sounds through my nose. It’s that same sound my dad makes when Nate and I tease him and he gets fed up. But I’m not fed up. I just don’t want to talk about this, because then I have to talk about it with Cass. And if I talk about it with Cass, I have to talk about it with Kelly—because Kelly’s the only other one, and I always promised myself I would make it okay with her if there was ever another. And now her husband is a loser. And fuck, fuck, damn, damn. Nate is staring at me, but I keep my eyes on the ticker at the bottom of the screen. Great, it is my running back that’s hurt. Well, there goes my fantasy week.