Page 22 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
"I’m not going to wear a coat in my own living space. Get a life."
The back and forth continues for several minutes, each of us adjusting the temperature when the other isn't looking. It's petty and ridiculous, but also strangely familiar.
If he doesn’t wise up though, I’m going to kneecap him. Then he’ll have real problems to worry about instead of whining about being hot.
Later, I open the hallway closet to hang up my coat and find his rank hockey skates shoved on top of my carefully organized coat bins. The smell hits me immediately. Leather and sweat and something that might be athletic tape, all mixed together in a cocktail that makes my eyes water.
"HUNTER!"
He sticks his head out of his room, toothbrush hanging out of his mouth and toothpaste foam at the corners of his lips. "What?"
“I need you to move your hockey crap out of the hall closet. It’s foul. And I want to store my coats there.”
"It's shared space," he argues.
"So is the trash chute," I snap, dragging his gear bag out and dropping it with a loud thud that probably violates our lease agreement. "Guess where this is going if you don’t handle it?"
"You're a terrorist. A five foot tall terrorist in heels."
“Huxleyyyy,” I purr, imitating a valley girl. I put my hands and my hips and give him a saccharine smile. "At least this time your comments won't get printed in the campus paper."
That hits home. His jaw tightens and for a second, something flickers across his face that looks almost like regret. The reference to college, to the interview that cost me my internship, hangs between us like a weight. But then it's gone, replaced by that familiar smirk that says he's not going to apologize for anything.
“You agreed to this, Ace. Actually, it wasyouridea.”
“As if I could ever forget,” I fire back. “And don’t call me Ace.”
“I think it suits you.”
Eyeing him, I cock my head. “Are you telling your brothers about the fake engagement?”
His expression is perplexed for a moment.
“I haven’t really thought about it. I guess I could, but Jett has a big fucking mouth. It’s probably better if I don’t give him a secret to keep.”
“I’m just trying to decide if I should tell my parents about it.”
He shrugs. “That’s up to you. Would your parents care?”
“Mm.” I screw my face up. “They’ll judge me. They hate hockey players, especially after Patrick and I broke up.” Her lips twitch. “Mom thinks you’re all complete idiots for playing a sport with such a high concussion rate.”
“Well, can’t argue with that logic. It sounds like whether you tell them or not, you’re screwed.”
With that, he heads to his room. I stare after him, knowing he’s right. Since I don’t want to follow in my mom’s footsteps, my parents aren’t really supportive of any choice I make. It’s better to have them in the dark than to try and get them on my side by sharing the truth.
I spend most of the day unpacking boxes. By evening, I am more than ready for a shower and a relaxing evening. Maybe I’ll read a nice cowboy romance on my Kindle. I change into silk pajamas that feel like luxury against my skin. Then I stare at the ceiling, trying to process the day.
My body's exhausted from the physical work of moving, but my mind is completely wired. His presence is too close, just down the hall. His energy is loud even through a closed door and probably decent soundproofing. My skin itches with irritation. Or maybe anticipation. I honestly can't tell anymore.
This was supposed to be a professional arrangement. Strategic. Clean. A business transaction that would benefit both of our careers and nothing more. I had it all mapped out in my head. We'd coexist politely, put on a good show for the cameras, and go our separate ways when the contract was up.
But I'm not sleeping. And I'm definitely not calm. I'm an engaged woman now, technically speaking. Mrs. Hunter Huxley-to-be. The thought is completely overwhelming. It’s like wearing a pair of pants that are several sizes too big and that you keep tripping over. And I definitely didn't plan on feeling anything when he watched me arrange my perfume bottles like the ritual actually meant something to him.
I mean, I didn’t. Just… being here, in his space, is not as terrible as I would’ve thought. I’m not sure what I imagined before I stepped in the door, but it wasn’t a space that could be so easily spruced up. A bar cart, a few vintage lamps. I could probably find some throw pillows for the black leather couch and sleek metal loveseat.
I could almost feel at home here.
I touch the ring on my finger, twisting it slightly. The emerald catches the candlelight and throws tiny rainbows across the ceiling. It's beautiful. Perfect, even. The kind of ring that makes a statement about forever and happily ever after and all the things I stopped believing in when Patrick left.
