Page 39 of Unlovable Player

“You really love her don’t you?”

“Who doesn’t love their own ma?”

His lips twitch and I wonder if he’s laughing at my accent again.

“I don’t know, Joan Crawford’s daughter?”

“Who?”

“Or that woman who wrote the book,I’m Glad My Mom Died.”

“Never heard of it.”

“So you’ve heard of Kafka, but not an author on the current best-seller’s list?”

I shrug. “I read school books and the occasional hockey biography, but that’s it. My ma’s really into reading. She likes Kafka and that Russian guy.”

“Tolstoy?”

“The other one, the guy with the long name.”

“Oh, Dostoyevsky.”

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

“Your mom’s wasted working in a diner.”

Heat floods through me and I grit my teeth before replying. “I know.”

“Sorry, that was insensitive. Rich asshole here remember.”

“Forget it. You’re right. She is wasted there. But as soon as I make enough money, I’m gonna buy her a house and take care of her and she’ll never have to work again.”

“Except to sing.”

“Yeah, except that.”

His face is calm as he drives. The sleeves of his college sweater rolled up to his elbows, showing his pale forearms threaded with thick veins. He has the kind of hands that never got into a fight. Never scraped their knuckles climbing over a wall to escape a beat down from crazy Jimmy up the street. When I look at him, he’s watching me stare at his hands. I think about asking him what he did yesterday, but I realize he probably doesn’t want me to know.

“What do you wanna eat?Begels?”

“Fuck you.”

“Notbegels?”

SEBASTIAN

Itry not to enjoy this too much.

It’s nice, arguing about where to eat while I drive around looking for a good place. It’s taking my mind off the shitty day I had yesterday, playingFarming Simulatorand falling asleep in my underwear. It also kind of feels like being in a relationship. Not that I’d know anything about that. When I was ‘with’ Greg – or Professor Hardy (you can imagine the nicknames he got after that video leaked) – we had to meet in secret. If I ever bumped into him at a bookstore on campus or at the cafeteria, he spoke to me the way he spoke to all his students. In that crisp, cheerful, professional manner. He was so good at it. He never even flinched. I’d be standing there, trying not to blush while images of him red-faced and sweaty with my thighs pressed against his chest came to mind, and he’d just be yapping away about Dickens like he hadn’t had me up against his desk a couple of hours ago.

I glance at Austin in the rear-view. He looks lost in thought and I wonder if he’s thinking about that kiss. He’d never be able to bluff the way Greg could.

“I can put a country playlist on if you like.”

“Nah, I’m good.” He keeps glancing out of the window, and when I slow down for a stop light, I catch him swallow hard. “I’ll make you one.”

A little flutter. I push it down.

---