Page 54 of From Now On

“He’s an idiot.”

Eve exhales. “Yeah.”

She sounds unconvinced, and I’m not sure what else to say.

I don’t know any details about her breakup, but after forty-one months together, it must have been big. You don’t casually call it quits after that long. I don’t want to seem insensitive, but I do want to tell her to move on and forget about the dick. I’m sure as hell not going to suggest she give him another chance.

I doubt it matterswhatI say. The odds of Eve remembering this conversation seem extremely low.

“Is chalant a word?” she asks suddenly.

“Chalant? Uh, no. I don’t think so.”

“I knew you’d know the answer,” Eve says confidently.

It’s another one of those statements I’m unsure is a compliment or not. She’s not being sarcastic, despite the fact my reply wasn’t exactlydefinitive.

“There’s a lot of shit I don’t know, Eve.”

Specifically, what the hell to do around her.

“I’m trying to be nonchalant,” she tells me. “Instead of chalant, if that was a real word.”

“Caring isn’t a bad thing.”

Her whispered “It feels like it is” is so low I wouldn’t have heard it if her mouth wasn’t right by my ear.

And I have this sudden, epiphanic moment where my attraction to Eve becomes more tangible. Because I know exactly what she means. I may pretend I’m a 911 operator when I’m on the phone with Sean, but that apathy collapses as soon as the call ends. There have been so many fucking times when I’ve wished I could shut that flow of turbulent emotion off, the same way you turn a faucet or flick off a light. Because it’s useless and unnecessary and Sean doesn’t want it. Doesn’tfeelit, so why should I?

I glance down at Eve, nestled against my chest. Her eyes are closed, her breathing even. She’s asleep.

We’re almost at Conor’s car.

“You parkedsofar away,” I hear Harlow bemoan behind me.

“Not really.” Hart sounds amused, not annoyed, and there’s no one else he’d be using that tone with. He doesn’t drink during the season, so I’ve witnessed Conor around plenty of tipsy peers. His patience level usually hovers at zero.

“Easy for you to say,” Harlow replies. “I’mthe one wearing heels.”

Now that Eve’s stopped talking, I can hear them clacking on the asphalt. I’ve honestly never understood why women wear heels. Walking on sticks can’t possibly be comfortable, as evidenced by Harlow’s complaining.

“Heels don’t make the car any farther away,” Conor tells her. “Honestly, this says a lot about your slacking with training, Hayes.”

Harlow huffs. “Maybe I’d be in better shape if my coach didn’t get so distracted.”

Conor is training Harlow for a marathon she’s running this summer. It’s a fundraiser for an organization that works to prevent drunk driving, which is how Harlow’s parents were tragically killed when she was in high school. I know Conor is hoping to run it with her, but it’s another piece of his future that will get decided by the draft.

“Maybe your coach would get less distracted if you stopped training in spandex outfits that show off your tits and ass.”

“They’reaerodynamic, Conor. Mr. Focused can’t handle a sports bra and some leggings?”

“Not if you’re wearing them,” Hart says seriously.

I speed up my steps, guessing their conversation is going to become increasingly R-rated.

Hart’s SUV is locked, and I don’t have a free hand to open a door anyway. So I just stand next to the car, holding Eve.

Hart and Harlow arrive next, Harlow beaming brightly as she clings to Conor’s back.

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