Page 19 of Best Kept Secret
“Uber,” I say as if it’s obvious.
“I don’t want you taking an Uber on your own.”
“You do realize millions of people in this city and the rest of the world take Ubers every minute of every day without issue, right?”
“Yeah, but none of them are mylittlesister,” Dallas argues.
“I’m twenty-two years old,” I retort with gritted teeth.
“Fine,” he mutters. “Let me know as soon as your home.”
I glance at Emily, and she gives me a knowing wink.
“Have a good night, you guys,” I say to the group on my way to the door, my gaze landing on Logan long enough to see a flicker of regret flash in his eyes.
Thankfully, the Uber takes less than a few minutes to arrive, and as I sit in the back seat, staring out as the city lights whizz past in a blur, my mind wanders back to Logan, to the look in his eyes when he pleaded me to hear him out, and how fraught with desperation he seemed when he told me it wasn’t what I thought it was. I almost laugh. Not what I thought it was, huh? Well, he sure proved himself a lying sack of shit with her there by his side tonight, guilt evident in his eyes as he watched me leave.
Muttering a curse, I pull my phone from my purse and unlock it, scrolling through my contacts to L forliar,apparently. And, sure, I consider myself for a split second, but fuck it. I huff an exasperated sigh as I unblock the number and then, without a second thought, I tap out a message I’ll probably regret in less than five seconds, but that’s the thing about heartache; it makes you do some really dumb things sometimes.
Me: Have a nice night with your girlfriend.
Switching my phone to Do Not Disturb, I drop it into my purse and sag back against the seat as I stare out at the city.
CHAPTER 9
LOGAN
Ishould’ve listened to my gut when it was telling me that coming to Ned’s tonight was a shitty fucking idea. I should be at home, in bed, with a mug of heated Moon Milk reading Stephen King’sThe Shining. Instead, here I am, with a stomach like lead as I stare down at my phone, at the message from Millie.
For two months, I’ve been dreaming of the day she finally unblocked my ass, naively imagining she might realize she was wrong, tell me she’s ready to listen. But as I look down at the words illuminated on my screen, I can’t help but sniff a self-deprecating laugh at just how fucking stupid I am.
Red: Have a nice night with your girlfriend.
I can hear her snarky tone in my head at the wordgirlfriend. If she’d just fucking stop to hear me out, she’d realize how stupid and unnecessary this whole mess is. The woman is literally infuriating. Impossible in every way. So why do I want her more than I want my name engraved on the Stanley Cup?
Of all the nights for Hannah to show up at Ned’s after a game, she chooses this night. It’s not her fault. It’smyluck. Whydoes it feel like my life is turning into nothing more than a series of misfortunes masquerading as one big never-ending joke?
“Everything okay?” Hannah asks, her face laced with concern as she looks from my phone to me. When her blue eyes meet mine, I can tell she knows immediately, her lips parting on a soft gasp. “Shit. I’m sorry, Loges. I didn’t know she was here.”
With a thick swallow, I shake my head, dismissing her words. She doesn’t need to apologize. She’s done nothing wrong.
Pocketing my phone, I finish the last of my Jack and Coke and stand from my stool. As I shrug on my coat, Happy glances across the table at me, his dark eyes imploring as if to check I’m okay. I offer him a small nod before saying my goodbyes to the group, and I leave before anyone notices my sudden shift in mood.
The night air barrels down West 49thStreet, hitting me like a bus, and with my head down, I hurry to my car parked around the corner. Sheltering inside from the cold, I take a few centering breaths, steeling myself and counting to three, but when I close my eyes, I keep seeing the look on Millie’s face when she realized that, not only was Hannah there, but that Hannah is a part of our group. The way her green eyes widened just a touch when she looked at me, flashing with a brutal combination of betrayal and hurt. The way her shoulders fell, as if the weight of resignation and dejection was all too much to withstand. She looked exactly like she did three months ago standing in my doorway, and I swear I could kick my own ass.
Tugging my phone from my pocket, I scroll to Millie’s message. The first in three months. The first amongst the, frankly, embarrassing plethora of messages I’ve sent her since December that went either unread or undelivered.Pathetic. I can’t help but shake my head at myself.
Me: Not my girlfriend. She isn’t now and she wasn’t then. But if you actually bothered to hear me out instead of being a stubborn ass, you’d know that.
As the sent sound rings through the silence of my car, I glare at my words, suddenly regretting them.
“Idiot,” I mutter on an exhale, pinching the bridge of my nose and squeezing my eyes closed. She’s going to block me again, for sure.
When my phone shudders, I almost jump out of my own skin, hope surging through me. But then I see what’s on the screen, and my fist clenches.
Dad: Keep losing control of the puck like you did in the second period and you’ll end up riding the bench for the rest of the season, Son.
The longer I stare at his words, the faster my heart races, pounding hard against my ribs. I rub at my sternum in the hope that it might ease the pain in my chest, but it’s pointless. It doesn’t matter that I won the fucking game. All he focuses on is the one mistake I made. A mistake I quickly fixed by turning over the puck and taking it right back down to the zone before handing off to Rusty, who sent it straight to the back of the fucking net.
