Page 92 of From Now On

“To study, huh? Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

Hart flips me off before opening the fridge.

“It’s not a euphemism. I’ve got a paper due Thursday, and Hayes has an exam on Friday. Plus, she’s going home this weekend, so studying seemed like the best shot at spending time together this week.”

“You going home with her?” I ask.

Hart sets some leftover chicken on the table, and then takes the chair across from mine. “No. She’s going to see Landon’s band play.”

“Oh.” Realization dawns.

“Yeah.”

Ever since the mystery of why Conor inexplicably avoided Harlow was solved, I’ve had a lot more sympathy toward Hart about the whole situation. If my dad left my mom and had a family—another son—I’d definitely carry some resentment about it. Avoid any reminders of the situation. I don’t envy Harlow’s spot smack in the middle either.

But, as far as I can tell, they haven’t allowed it to mess with their relationship.

“That…going okay?” I ask carefully.

“About the same.” He shrugs a shoulder. “Landon still thinks Harlow is just a fling for me.”

“He doesn’t know you very well, then.”

“No,” Conor agrees. “He doesn’t.”

“Sorry, man.”

Hart nods. “I knew what I was getting into. Wouldn’t change a damn thing.” He swallows some water. “Hey, did Eve reply about the charger?”

“Huh?”

“Eve’s charger, that she left in your car. I can bring it when I head over there.”

Oh.Oh. Shit.

I clear my throat. “Right. It wasn’t hers, it turns out.”

“Oh.” Conor frowns. “Weird.”

He appears puzzled, not suspicious. Then again, why would he assume I was lying about a phone charger?

I finish off my lunch, then stick my plate in the dishwasher. “I’ll see you later. I’m headed to the library to work on my thesis.”

“Have fun.”

Writing a thesis is a requirement for all political science majors. Not for English, which is Hart’s major.

“Yeah, thanks.” I match his sarcasm.

“I told you to major in English, dude. Then we could have had all our classes together.”

“You mean, the language I already speak? Pass.”

Conor throws a balled-up napkin at me as I head for the doorway. “It’s the study of literature and how it relates to culture and history, you dick.”

“You missed, Hart,” I call over one shoulder. “Stick to hockey.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

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