Page 35 of The Retreat

Two years.

And it wasn’t all bad.

Colin grew on me every day.

I like him. I’d call us friends. I don’t have many of those, so it’s weird to settle into that too.

“That’s a thing?” Colin blinks, and his mouth drops open. “Is that why my calls don’t go through to you?”

“What?”

“My calls. They are always sent straight to voicemail. I even checked your phone to see if you had me blocked.” He tosses the phone at me.

“Fucking Oliver. I bet he has something to do with it.” I would have to figure out how to set it up myself without calling them, or really having to talk to any human. I hate talking on the phone.

I pick up my phone to send my brother a text when a voicemail clicks through. I click to read the transcription of it, but my phone starts ringing again.

“It’s calling me again and the beginning of the voicemail said it was the National team coach, but I couldn’t see the rest of the message.” I meet his eyes, turning my phone around to show him.

“Answer it.” Colin gets closer, looking at the screen.

“Why? Why would the national team coach be calling me?”

Colin grabs at my phone, but I send it to voicemail.

“I need to think about it before I’m put on the spot,” I say when he crosses his arms.

“What else were you going to do with your time?” Colin asks. “You’re graduated, and Oliver is working with your dad. You’re not taking a job at his firm, are you?”

I cringe. “No. I’m going to take a year off to question every choice I’ve ever made,” I say without hesitation.

“Maybe spending that much time alone without a job or school isn’t such a good idea.”

“It sounds wonderful to me.” I’m not ready to say he might be right.

“Can you really say no to the national team?”

“Isn’t that how consent works?”

Colin presses his lips into a line. “Don’t make me call Oliver.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Watch me.” He whips his phone out.

I growl, getting up to grab it. He tries to keep it, but I shove it into my pocket.

“If you think I won’t put my hands in your pants, you’re wrong.” Colin puts his hands on his hips.

I square up to him. “Not until we’ve talked.”

“So if I talk to you first, then you’ll let me stick my hands in your pants?”

“In my pocket,” I clarify.

“Close enough.” His tone stirs something in my chest.

“Why do you think I should do this?” I reach into every communication skill I’ve learned from my therapist.

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