Page 66 of Hate to Love You

Something in my belly clenches at the idea of her dating one man exclusively. Ever since Dad left, it’s been just the two of us. I’m not sure if I’m ready for some stranger to barge in and throw off the balance we’ve found after all these months.

“Davies?” Brody reaches out and touches my arm. “You okay?”

I force my lips up and lower my voice. “Yeah. I’m fine.” I don’t want Mom to overhear our conversation. “It’s weird to see your parents dating. This is the first guy she’s gone out with. At least, it’s the first one she’s mentioned. It’s not that I don’t want her to find someone, but…” I’m not sure how to finish that sentence without sounding like a selfish jerk.

“You don’t necessarily want to have a stranger dropped in the middle of your life,” he finishes for me.

My body wilts as he voices my silent concern. It’s a relief that he gets it. That I don’t have to justify my feelings to him.

“After everything that happened with my dad, I’m not ready for that. I’m not ready for both of my parents to be in relationships. To introduce new people into my life.”

His fingers brush against mine and wrap around them. “It took a little bit of time to get used to the idea of my dad dating again. It sucked thinking someone might come in and try to take my mom’s place, but,” he shrugs, “I wanted him to be happy.” He gives my hand a squeeze. “It’ll get easier. I promise.”

For the first time since the divorce, I feel like someone understands what I’m going through. The fact that it’s the guy I spent three years hating on makes it even more bizarre. Or a cosmic joke. Even though his mother died and my parents are separated, we still have to deal with extraneous people involved in our lives.

“I hope so,” I whisper. Because right now, it feels excruciating.

“Just give it some time. Let the dust settle.”

I nod.

Who would have ever thought I’d be taking life advice from Brody? It’s enough to make me wonder if I’ve entered a parallel universe.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Natalie

Brody and I are camped out on the third floor of the library. Books and papers are spread out across the table. We have a test on Friday in our Managerial Finance class, so we’ve been hitting the library to study when time allows. Which, with Brody’s hockey schedule, is no easy feat.

I never realized that playing a sport at the college level is like having a full-time job. I hate to admit it, but Brody’s schedule is grueling. I’m not sure I would want to have it. He’s usually up by five and doesn’t fall into bed until eleven. Tonight, he looks especially exhausted. I feel a little guilty for assuming that he’s been coasting his way through school. Obviously, that’s not the case.

There’s something else I’ve noticed this week.

The books Brody uses are large-print texts, which make me suspect that something’s going on, but I have no idea what.

Vision problems?

But that doesn’t make sense when he’s such an amazing hockey player.

Sometimes I watch him from beneath my lashes. Where I can skim over the page of a textbook in a matter of minutes, Brody takes a lot longer to read through and digest each section. He highlights passages or important concepts and types them on his laptop. The entire process seems painstaking and slow.

I’m beginning to suspect that Brody has a learning disability. He hasn’t mentioned anything and I’ve been too afraid to ask. I don’t want to offend him. A couple weeks ago, I wouldn’t have cared about hurting Brody’s feelings, but something subtle has changed between us. Somehow, we’ve managed to strike up a tentative friendship, and I’m loath to ruin it.

After about an hour, I pull out a stack of index cards from my bag and silently slide them across the table.

Brody stares at the pile held together by a rubber band. There’s a guarded expression on his face when his eyes lift to mine. “What’s that?”

An unexpected burst of nerves wing their way to life inside me. “I made some cards for you to study with.”

He seems taken aback. “You made me flash cards?”

Only now do I wonder if I’ve made a mistake. Unfortunately, it’s too late to snatch them off the table and pretend this never happened. I gulp. “I thought it might make studying a little easier. That way you have something small and portable you can pull out when you have a couple of minutes of downtime.” I don’t want him to think it’s a big deal. “Even if you spend five minutes flipping through them a few times a day, it might help.” I shrug, wishing this didn’t feel so awkward. “Zara sometimes makes notecards for herself. It helps her to memorize the material.”

When he remains silent, I repeat miserably, “I thought it might help.” Shifting on my chair, I reach out, ready to slip the cards back into my bag. As I make a grab for them, he covers my fingers with his own. I stare down at our clasped hands.

Brody clears his throat. “Thank you.”

“It’s not a big deal,” I say quickly, just wanting to drop the subject.

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