Okay, that’s a lie.
He’s a part of the reason I don’t believe in that crap.
Not anymore.
When I finally drop Callie off at her boyfriend’s, I rush back to our dorm to quickly change, and then I’m hurrying out once again so I’m not late.
These days it seems like all I do is run this way or that, but I prefer it that way. As long as I keep my head down and stay on my schedule, I won’t have too much time to think about all the secrets that I keep piling up.
Once I get into the familiar neighborhood, one of the best in Blairwood and surrounding areas, I slow the car. Because, of course, he wants the best. He can afford it too.
I know I don’t have much of a choice. Not if I want to keep everybody happy.
Suck it up, buttercup.
Rolling my car to a stop in front of the familiar two-story colonial, I take one deep breath, putting all the shields I spent years building firmly in place. Since I spent the winter break in New York with my mother, I haven’t been here since last semester, but I knew he expected me today.
Here we go again.
Taking my bag from the passenger seat, I clench it tightly and get out of the car, not bothering to lock up. This is too nice of a neighborhood for anybody to try and steal my piece of shit car, and I don’t want any obstacles in the way in case I need to flee.
If a big city teaches you anything, it’s to always be on the lookout and always have a way out.
Not letting my nerves get the better of me, I cross the distance toward the front door in a few long strides and ring the doorbell.
Then I wait.
My heart is beating loudly in my chest, my palms growing sweaty with nerves.
It’s always like this, no matter how many times I tell myself it doesn’t matter and that I don’t care. I don’t want to care, but a part of me that I buried deep inside still does no matter how much I try to pretend otherwise.
The footsteps behind the wooden door come closer; the lock turns, and the door slides open. I lift my gaze from his chest all the way to his eyes.
“Yasmin,” he says coolly.
“Coach Davies.”
His face turns grim, well, grimmer if that’s even possible. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the guy smile. Not that I actually care if he does or not.
“I thought we agreed you’d call me Jeremy.”
“No, that’s what you said, but I never agreed,” I correct, entering the house. The last thing I need is for somebody to see me come here. Not that I think there are many of my fellow students living around these parts, but you can never be sure.
Coach sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Do you always have to be so difficult?”
Not even bothering to turn to look at him, I walk down the hallway and into the kitchen. “I’m not one of your players, Coach. You can’t boss me around. Besides, you know exactly what you have to do in order for all of this to stop.”
The door closes, and he follows after me. “You know I can’t do that.”
“You won’t,” I correct him. “There’s a difference.”
“Do I have to remind you that you’re the one who came to me?”
His harsh words make me flinch. They sting, and he knows it. I hate the fact that I had to reach out to him, of all people, when I was at my lowest. And even more than that, I hate having it thrown in my face every time I see him. Hell, just having to see him is a slap to my pride, but there was no avoiding it. Not if I want to keep my secrets to myself.
“I’m sorry, I…” he starts, but I wave him off, not wanting to hear his apologies.
“Don’t. Just…” I suck in a breath, trying to collect myself. “Let’s get this over with.”
The silence that falls over us is deafening. The air in the room is filled with pent-up tension that seems to permeate the space. Or maybe it’s me who brings it every time I come; either way, I can’t discuss this any longer.
“Very well,” he finally concedes.
Coach moves to the stove and stirs something that’s simmering in a pot. I didn’t even see it until this very moment, but now I do. The air smells nice; it always does when he’s cooking. The smells of tomato and spices fill the room, making my stomach react and reminding me I haven’t eaten in a while.
For a single guy—that I know of, not that I actually bothered to ask, that or anything else for that matter—he’s actually quite a good cook. Not that I’d admit it out loud.
“How are classes going?” he asks, still engrossed in preparing dinner.
I noticed he does it often. Making sure he’s doing something else while he’s asking questions, so it doesn’t seem like he’s questioning me.
I look around, needing to do… something.
The table is already set, leaving me without anything to occupy myself, so I reluctantly sit down, opting for the table instead of a bar chair that separates the kitchen space from the dining room. The further away from him that I am, the better.
“They’re okay. The semester just started, but I’m sure it’ll pick up in no time.”
“How many did you take this time?”
That didn’t take too long. I steel myself as I say, “Six.”
He sighs. “You know you don’t have to…”
Irritated with the way this conversation is going, again, I snap at him. “I want it that way, so leave it.”
Coach opens his mouth to say something, but then shakes his head, and thankfully, lets it go, changing the subject instead. “Are you still volunteering?”
“Yup, I just came from there. I had to drop my friend at her boyfriend’s house before coming here.”
He hums noncommittally. “Callie, was it?”
For a moment, I’m surprised that he remembered, but then again, he’s always been good at remembering details. Well, all but one little detail, but that’s definitely not a topic we talk about.
Ever.
“Yes.”
“She’s still your roommate?”
“For this semester.”
I’m not sure what will happen next year, though. Callie and Hayden are really happy, and since they got back together, she’s been spending a lot of time at his place, just coming by the dorms to change and pick up some of her things before dashing out again. If they continue this way, by the end of the school year, they’ll talk about moving in together, I’m sure of it.
Coach turns off the stove and picks up whatever he’s been cooking to bring it to the table.
“Hope you like spaghetti Bolognese.”
The yummy smell reaches my nostrils, and my stomach grumbles in response. Loudly.
“That’s fine.” I shrug, trying to play it cool.
Since I know he’ll wait for me to fill my plate first, I reach out to grab pasta covered in sauce and put it on my plate, adding a bit of Parmesan on top.
I wait for him to do the same, and then we eat for a bit in tense silence, with only the sound of utensils scratching against the dishes filling the air.
My whole body is stiff, although I’ve become good at presenting a cool front in the past few months. I have to come here, but I don’t have to make it easy on him. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t come here in the first place.