Page 35 of You, Me, and Lucky Number 13

It is also, I realize with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, utterly exhilarating.

A soft knock on the door makes me jump. I scramble to my feet, my heart doing a frantic dance in my chest. “Yeah?” My voice cracks, betraying my nerves.

“Lola?” Cole’s voice is deep, laced with amusement.

Heat creeps up my neck, a telltale blush I can’t seem to control.

“Just a sec,” I manage, clearing my throat. I take a deep breath, counting to thirteen, then let it out, willing my heart to slow its frantic pace, and open the door.

Cole stands there, leaning against the doorframe, his damp hair tousled, sweatpants slung low on his hips. He’s still shirtless. Because of course, he is.

“Hey,” he says as a slow smile spreads across his face. He holds my gaze for a beat, his eyes dark and knowing, before pushing off the doorframe. “Come on.” He heads toward the living room. “Let’s have that beer we didn’t get to celebrate with.”

He doesn’t mention the bathroom. Doesn’t mention what I witnessed. And for that, I am eternally grateful.

I follow him, my steps hesitant, my stomach a tangled mess of nerves and anticipation.

He grabs two beers from the fridge, his back muscles flexing with the movement, and hands me one. “Cheers,” he says, clinking his bottle against mine. “To new beginnings?”

I take a long swallow, the cold beer a welcome shock to my system. New beginnings. Yeah, okay, I can get behind that. Especially if they involve shirtless men and gray sweatpants.

An awkward silence settles between us, broken only by the soft hum of the refrigerator and the sound of my own pulse, which seems to be broadcasting loud enough to wake the neighbors.

“So,” I say, desperate to break the tension, “how are your parents? I haven’t seen them around much lately.”

The easy smile that was just playing on Cole’s face vanishes, replaced by a shuttered expression that makes my stomach clench. “Mom’s doing well,” he says, his voice carefully neutral. “She’s still in Aspen. Loves it there.”

“And your dad?”

He takes a long pull of his beer, avoiding my gaze. “He passed, but I hadn’t spoken to him in years.”

I frown, confused. “Years? But I thought—” I stop myself, suddenly unsure of what I thought. We haven’t really talked about his parents much, not in the time I’ve been living here. He never seems to volunteer the information.

As if reading my mind, he continues, his voice flat. “We haven’t been a family for a while now. Mom and Dad got divorced a few years back. Dad passed away not too long after that.”

Divorced? Passed? I stare at him, floored. Why didn’t I know that? It isn’t like we are strangers. Once upon a time, we were besties, but I guess a lot can change in six years.

“Cole, I’m so sorry,” I say, reaching out to touch his arm. “I had no idea.”

“No need to apologize. It was the best thing that could’ve happened to us.”

He shrugs off my hand, his gaze fixed on some point beyond the wall. “It’s fine,” he says, but the word holds no conviction. I’m not sure if he’s telling me or himself at this point. He drains the rest of his beer in one long gulp, his throat working, and I know, with a certainty that chills me to the bone, that there aresome wounds even time can’t heal. I’m silent, waiting for him to elaborate.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, finally meeting my gaze. The easygoing mask is back in place, but his eyes… his eyes hold a lifetime of pain.

I want to ask him what he means, want to delve into the years of hurt and resentment that seem to simmer beneath the surface of his carefully constructed composure. But something stops me. A sense of self-preservation, maybe. Or maybe it’s just the knowledge that some doors are better left unopened.

“But—”

He cuts me off with a wave of his hand, his jaw clenched tight. “Let’s just say my dad wasn’t exactly father of the year material.” He sets his empty beer bottle on the counter with a soft clink, the sound sharp in the sudden silence. “It’s fine, Lola. It’s ancient history.”

Is it, though? His words are meant to reassure, but they do the opposite. I want to reach for him, to offer him some comfort, but the look in his eyes, shuttered and guarded, tells me he won’t accept it.

So instead, I do the only thing I can think of: I change the subject. We talk about the race, about the upcoming season, about anything and everything that isn’t the gaping hole in his past. But even as we laugh and joke, a part of me can’t shake the feeling that we’re just dancing around the edges of something real and infinitely more terrifying than a shared glance through a steam-filled shower door.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

LOLA

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