Page 56 of The Dating Coach
The walk of shame across campus in yesterday's clothes was worth it for the memory of waking up in Liam's arms. I made it to my apartment with just enough time to throw on practice gear and attempt to tame my hair into submission.
Karen was in the kitchen, coffee mug paused halfway to her lips as she took in my appearance. "Well, well. Someone didn't come home last night."
"I was providing medical care," I said primly, grabbing my swim bag.
"Is that what we're calling it now?" She grinned. "About fucking time, honestly. The sexual tension was killing us all."
"Nothing happened," I protested. "He's injured. We just slept."
"Uh-huh. And that hickey on your neck is from... medical care?"
My hand flew to my neck. "There's no—"
"Made you look," she sang. "But seriously, Gem. You look happy. Like, actually happy. It's a good look on you."
I wanted to deflect, to minimize, to protect myself with sarcasm. Instead, I found myself saying, "I am happy. Terrifyingly, irrationally happy."
"Good," Karen said firmly. "You deserve terrifying happiness. Now go to practice before Coach makes you swim extra laps."
Practice was brutal, my distraction evident in every missed interval. But I couldn't stop smiling, even as Coach lectured about focus and commitment. My phone had three texts from Liam by the time I finished – increasingly dramatic descriptions of his suffering that made me laugh despite myself.
I was still grinning as I walked back to my apartment, which made the sight of the familiar car in our parking lot that much more jarring.
A luxury car, similar to Karen's parents' car, sat there like a warning, all sleek lines and judgment. My stomach dropped as I remembered her panicked text from last week about them potentially visiting. We'd laughed it off then, sure they'd never follow through on their threat to "check on their investment."
I flew up the stairs, bursting into our apartment to find chaos. Karen was shoving Mia's belongings into closets while Mia herself stood frozen in the living room, clutch of textbooks against her chest like a shield.
"They called from the road," Karen said frantically. "Twenty minutes out. Help me hide everything!"
We flew into action, three people practiced in the art of hiding truth from parents. Mia's pride flag came down, replaced by Karen's innocuous landscape print. Photos from our chosen family dinners disappeared into drawers. Every trace of my sister's existence was erased with painful efficiency.
"I can go to the library," Mia offered, voice small. "Study there until—"
"No," I said firmly. "You live here. You're my cousin visiting for college tours, remember? We've used that story before."
"But what if they—"
The doorbell cut her off. Karen's parents had arrived.
What followed was forty minutes of polite torture. Mr. and Mrs. Lopez were everything parents were supposed to be on paper – successful, attractive, concerned about their daughter's wellbeing. They were also masters of subtle disapproval, each comment designed to cut without seeming cruel.
"Such a... cozy apartment," Mrs. Lopez observed, making 'cozy' sound like 'squalid.' "Though I suppose it's adequate for temporary student housing."
"The neighborhood seems very... diverse," Mr. Lopez added, which in his vocabulary was not a compliment. "Are you sure it's safe? We could help you find something in a better area."
"This is perfect," Karen said through gritted teeth. "Close to campus and affordable."
"Affordable," her mother repeated with a delicate shudder. "Well, I suppose that's important when you insist on pursuing journalism instead of something practical."
They questioned everything – why Karen needed a roommate ("Couldn't you budget better?"), why said roommate's "cousin" was staying with us ("Doesn't she have proper accommodations?"), why there were men's hoodies in our coat closet ("Those are mine," I lied quickly, shoving Liam's Providence hoodie deeper into the pile).
The real torture came with their pointed observations about "appropriate priorities" and "focusing on the right things." Every comment dripped with implication – that Karen was wasting her potential, that her choices were disappointments wrapped in polite concern.
"We just worry," Mrs. Lopez said, touching Karen's hand with false warmth. "You're so talented. We'd hate to see you waste that on... fleeting college experiences."
The weight of unspoken accusations pressed down on us all. Mia grew quieter with each passing minute, shrinking into herself in a way that made my chest ache.
Finally, blessedly, they left with promises to "check in more often" and reminders about "staying focused." The moment the door closed, Karen collapsed on the couch.
