Page 6 of Cruel Winter with You

“Um, Tabitha’s on the phone with CJ,” I explained.

“Ah.” It came out a little raspy, and he cleared his throat. Surprisingly, he didn’t leave. Instead, he said, “Niall Holcomb, huh?”

“What? Oh.” Niall and I dated for my last two years of high school. He was the ideal first boyfriend—always kind, never pushy, busy enough with his own life not to demand too much from someone whose main priority would always be academics. Namely,me. Like Marc, he played basketball. In fact, Marc had basically stolen his spot on the team. “Yeah,” I said. I was surprised he had noticed we were together, since Niall and I kept a pretty low profile.

Marc’s lips flattened. “He treating you well?”

“. . . Yes?”

“Are you answering me or asking me?”

“Yes. He is.” I blinked, confused. “Why? Are you going to tell me a dark secret about him? Is he a sociopath? Does hekeep a family of porcelain dolls in his locker? Always carries zip ties with him? Toenail fungus?”

Marc huffed a laugh. “I wish I could. But he’s a really good guy.”

“Then ... why do you wish you could?”

He shrugged. Didnotexplain himself. “What are you and Tab up to, by the way?”

“I’m waiting for her to drive to band practice together.”

“Ah.” He nodded and walked past me, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge. He was sotall, I couldn’t believe that he’d once been tiny enough to hold in my arms. The features that had seemed to swallow his face just a couple of years ago had turned into something almost disturbingly attractive, especially in combination with his dark hair and gray eyes. “How’s the trombone going?” he asked, leaning against the counter.

“Poorly.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t play it.”

“Come on, Butt Paper. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

“No, for real,Marky. I play the tuba.”

I watched him bite back a smile. “They’re the same, aren’t they?”

“Nope.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.” I took a deep breath. “Don’t be alarmed, but it’s the reason they have different names.”

“That can’t be true.” He shook his head, not bothering to hide his amusement.

“Let’s bet on it.”

His eyebrow rose. “What do you want to bet?”

“If I’m right,” I told him, “you’re mowing my dad’s lawn this summer.” I hated doing thatsomuch. I would barter a million chores to avoid it.

“Seems fair. But ifI’mright ...” He hesitated. That smirky half smile that seemed to permanently reside on his face suddenly faded. For a moment, he looked almost nervous. But also preternaturally determined.

“Yeah?” I prompted, a little breathless.

“IfI’mright, then you’ll go on—”

I never got around to hearing his side of the bet because Tabitha walked in and interrupted us. But Marc must have done some independent research and read up on brass instruments, because even though I never saw him at my house, that year I didn’t have to mow the lawn a single time.

As I moved into my senior year, there were big and little moments with him.

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