Page 77 of The Playmaker

“Me?” she asks hesitantly.

“Yeah, you. You come here to ask for help because you need to write a story. Fine, I get it, you need the money. I saw your bills.”

Her eyes go wide, and her shrugged shoulders straighten in a defiant manner. “You did?”

“Yeah, when I went with you to your place. I saw them. What’s fucked up is you’d rather lose your home than use the trust fund Cason set up for you. Why is that, Nina?”

“What are you talking about? Mom and Dad set that up, a way to make up for the years they neglected us. But I didn’t want their money, I wanted their presence in my life, which is why I refused to touch it!”

“No, Nina. Cason set that up for you.”

“But I always thought—”

“You thought wrong.”

“I…I had no idea,” she says, and reaches for me. “I had no idea about your childhood either, Cole. If I had of I would have done—”

“You’ve done enough,” I say and back up, away from her outstretched arm.

15

Nina

I pace inside my condo, my heart so heavy and empty, I have no idea what to do with myself. My throat hurts from fighting off an ugly cry as I open my curtains and glance out at Cole’s car still in front of my place. I needed a fast getaway, so when he told me to take it, I didn’t hesitate.

I never meant to hurt Cole or Tabby. When I went to his father’s house and brought him over to Cole’s for dinner, my intentions had been the exact opposite. His father never let on anything was wrong between them all, and in his head, I don’t think he can understand why Cole and Tabby have nothing to do with him. But Cole was right. I did overstep boundaries. I thought we had more between us, but the reminder that we were simply fuck buddies was a good one.

When it comes right down to it, I guess I never knew Cole at all.

I stare at the phone in my hand, wanting to call Jess, but I can’t. Those things Cole said to me were private, and even though he probably hates me for what I did, I’d never want to betray him by sharing his deepest, darkest secrets, ones that obviously still haunt him.

Tears prick my eyes and I press my palms to my face, but there’s nothing I can do to dispel the image of him standing like a cornered animal, his body tense, in fight-or-flight mode. Water pours from my eyes. Damn. Damn. Damn.

My phone pings, and I nearly drop it as I fumble to check to see if it’s Cole. Disappointment settles heavy in my chest as I read the text from Jess, wanting to know how dinner went.

I toss my phone onto my sofa and head to the kitchen. I grab a tub of ice cream from the freezer, a spoon from the drawer, and plunk back down on my sofa, my unpacked bag still sitting near my door. My phone

continues to buzz, and I continue to ignore it as I flick the TV on to watch a rerun of Friends.

As Joey cracks a joke, my doorbell chimes. Great. I should have answered Jess. Now she’s at my door, and I’m a hot mess. I don’t want to explain this to her. I don’t want to explain it to anyone. I just want to eat ice cream and curl into a ball.

I might be hurting right now, but my heart hurts more for Cole, for the years of abuse he endured and hid from the world—still does. I wasn’t sure what his sister meant when she’d said, if it wasn’t for your family. But I do now. Our house was his escape, the one place he felt safe, and I brought all his painful memories back tonight.

Christ, I could be the poster girl for fucked-up good intentions.

When the chiming continues—apparently, Jess isn’t planning on leaving anytime soon—I jab my spoon into my ice cream and wipe my hand across my tear-stained cheek.

I unlock my door, pull it open, and I’m about to ask her for a rain check on a gab session—when I find a very solemn Cole standing there, looking so lost and alone, my already broken heart shatters a little more.

“I…” I try to talk, to find my words, but they stick in my ever-tightening throat.

“Hey,” he says, looking like he’d just been through the rinse cycle then hung out to dry.

My lungs constrict, and I can barely breathe. I work to pull myself together and say, “Cole, I…I…didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

“I know. I’m sorry, too.” He shrugs like he’s making light of getting hurt, but there is so much pain in his eyes. “I’m an expert asshole, remember?”

I’m about to tell him he’s the nicest, kindest guy I know, and that I’m so freaking sorry, when he holds a hand out.

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