Page 90 of Icing Hearts

All I have to do is stay away from Tory. I can do that. My shaky breath lays evidence to the lie of that statement. To my duplicity.

So I do it.

I sink to the floor, ignoring the shard of glass splintering into my legs and kiss the last nine days—and a future with Tory—goodbye. The days when the hockey star and the chief’s daughter were just Tory and Clara go up in flames before my very eyes.

My trembling fingers pull up my contacts list, and I tap his name. The line rings three times before he answers.

“Hey, can we talk?”

Chapter 55

Victory

“Hey. Can we talk?” she says to me.

That’s never good. Those words have never precipitated or signaled anything good in the history of words. They usually mean that one person talks and the other person—the listener—must accept whatever hand they’re dealt. Reasoning and bargaining have already gone out the window when someone asks to talk. They’re really just asking if they can talk. It’s not going to be a conversation.

Plus, she’s seeking me out at my locker. Clara is going out of her way to tell me something bad. And the pitiful look on her face tells me it’s dismal. I close my locker. Brace myself. Face her. She’s beautiful. In a distracting way. In a distant way. The way she’s been distant since that night at her house when I had it out with her father.

Nothing has gone the way I wanted it to. Nothing when it comes to her. I’m so in love that it’s physically painful sometimes. And she wants to “talk.” The role of listener is silent. So I let her talk.

“Look, I just wanted to tell you myself before you hear it from someone else, or from Vincent.”

Vincent. Dismal indeed.

A quick inhale and then it’s all out of her in one breath. “He asked me to be his girlfriend last night, and I said yes. And, Tory, I’m sure this isn’t really what you were expecting, but I really like him and this is the best for everyone.”

Scratch goes the record in my brain. Again, and again. My psyche is a drunk DJ. He must be, because the words coming out of her mouth still don’t make sense. Nothing computes, and it’s wrong.

“No.” I shake my head. Not terribly profound but better than the high-pitched whine echoing in my skull. “No.” More forcefully this time.

She goes silent. Apparently having talked as much as she wants to about the matter.

“Is this why you’ve been so weird since Sunday?”

“I haven’t been weird.”

“Here’s the timeline Clara: Saturday night, we landed. I talked to your dad. I slept over. Sunday, we spent the day together. Sunday night, I dropped you off at home. Never heard from you, which is fine, you don’t have to text me constantly. Yesterday, you avoided me all day which was weird. But again, not trying to pressure you. Which brings us to right now, when you tell me that sometime between Sunday night and now, you and Vince—who barely spoke to you all week and hasn’t wanted anything serious—are dating exclusively. Do I have that right?”

“Pretty much.”

“So what the hell happened? Did your dad do something or say something? Because I can explain.”

“What would there be to explain?”

Okay, so no, he didn’t say anything, and I let something slip just now. But oh well, because there’s a freaking foghorn sounding very loudly in my brain, and nothing makes sense.

“Nothing.” I lean my forehead against the metal in hopes it’ll hone my thoughts and stop the feeling that I’m spiraling down a tub drain. I peer over at her, only finding steely-eyed determination where I swear there’d been love just days ago . “Is this real?”

She nods and moves to walk away.

I follow.

“It’s never going to work out,” I call after her. “He’s not good enough for you, Clara.”

She whirls around and stops short. “And you are?”

My chest heaves against hers. “Of course not. Where’d you get such an idea?”

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