Page 11 of The Risk

“Will do.”

“Are you spending the night?” There’s an edge to the question.

“Two nights, actually. I’m going up to Boston tomorrow, and heading back Sunday.”

“Don’t do—” He halts.

“Don’t do what?” This time, it’s my tone taking on that sharp edge.

“Don’t do anything reckless. Don’t drink too much. Be safe.”

I appreciate that he doesn’t say, “Don’t drink at all,” but that’s probably because he knows he can’t stop me. Once I turned eighteen, he couldn’t force me to abide by his curfew or his rules anymore. And once I turned twenty-one, he couldn’t stop me from having a drink or two.

“I’ll be safe,” I promise, because that’s the one assurance I can give with confidence.

“Bren,” he says. Then stops again.

I feel like most conversations with my father go like this. Start and stop. Words we want to say, and words we don’t say. It’s so hard to connect with him.

“Dad, can we hang up now? I want to take a hot shower and get ready for bed. I have to wake up early tomorrow.”

“All right. Let me know how the interview goes.” He pauses. When he speaks again, it’s to offer some rare encouragement. “You got this.”

“Thank you. Night, Dad.”

“Night, Brenna.”

I hang up and do exactly what I told him—take a scalding-hot shower, because the twenty-minute walk in the rain chilled me down to the bone. I’m redder than a lobster when I emerge from the cramped shower stall. My little bathroom doesn’t have a bathtub, which is a shame. Hot baths are the absolute best.

I don’t like sleeping with wet hair, so I do a quick blow-dry and then rummage around in my dresser in search of my warmest PJs. I settle on plaid pants and a thin long-sleeve tee with the Briar University logo on it. Basements tend to be cold as a rule, and my apartment is no exception. I’m surprised I haven’t come down with pneumonia in the seven or so months I’ve lived here.

As I get under the covers, I pop my phone out of its charger and find a missed call from Summer. I have a feeling she’ll call again if I don’t respond, probably five seconds after I fall asleep, so I preemptively ring her back before she can ruin my good night’s sleep.

“Are you mad at me?” is how she greets me.

“No.” I curl up on my side, the phone balanced on my shoulder.

“Even though I set you up with Jules and vouched for him?” Her voice ripples with guilt.

“I’m an adult, Summer. You didn’t force me to say yes.”

“I know. But I feel terrible. I can’t believe he didn’t show.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m not the least bit upset. If anything, I dodged a bullet.”

“Okay, good.” She sounds relieved. “I’ll find someone even better to hook you up with.”

“You most certainly will not,” I say cheerfully. “You’re officiallyrelieved of your matchmaking duties—which you bestowed on yourself, by the way. Trust me, babes, I have zero issues when it comes to meeting men.”

“Yes, you’re good at meeting them. But dating them? You suck at that.”

I’m quick to protest. “Because I’m not looking to date anybody.”

“Why not? Having a boyfriend is awesome.”

Sure, maybe when your boyfriend is Colin Fitzgerald. Summer is dating one of the most decent guys I’ve ever met. Intelligent, kind, astute, not to mention hot as fuck.

“Are you and Fitzy still obsessed with each other?”

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