“Bye, Natalie.”
We stare at each other for a few more seconds before I start walking toward my car. I steal a glimpse over one shoulder once I reach the SUV, watching his long strides eat up the rest of the sidewalk and then walk inside the coffee shop.
I’m in a surprisingly good mood when I get home. The first thing I see when I walk inside is my dad on his phone. He’s wearing a suit.
“Dad?”
He glances up. “Natalie. You’re home early.”
“Youtold meto be home early. Remember?”
He doesn’t. It takes a minute for the confusion to clear from his face. “Oh. Right. Plans changed. Your mother and I are heading to the city for dinner. We’ll be back tomorrow afternoon.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me?”
“Natalie.” My father sighs. “You’re almost twenty. I didn’t think having your parents leave for the night would be an issue.” He tosses a few hundreds on the table. “Order yourself some dinner. Have a few friends over. You’re young. Enjoy it, sweetheart.”
I chew the inside of my cheek. My mom walks into the kitchen. There’s no sign of the crumpled figure that’s spent most of the summer locked away in the master suite. Her blonde hair is up in a fancy chignon and she’s wearing an elegant silk dress. Her makeup is perfectly applied. My father gives her an approving nod, and I watch her preen under the silent praise.
“What are you doing home, Natalie?”
“I got hungry,” I say. My voice is flat and dull.
“I don’t think there’s much in the fridge.” My mother glances at the appliance. “You should order some food.”
“I already gave her money, Lindsay,” my father says. His voice is soothing. Assured. “Are you ready to go?”
“Yes,” my mother responds, patting her hair to ensure there isn’t a strand out of place. “We’ll see you tomorrow, sweetheart.”
I grunt in response, my fingernails digging into the soft skin of my palm as my parents walk out the door.
Hating how much I care.
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
LIAM
Istare at the ceiling. Toss the football up and catch it.
It’s eight thirty, and I’m home alone. My parents are at a dinner party and Maeve is out with Weston. My phone keeps lighting up with notifications I keep ignoring.
My mind is filled withher.
Glenmont and Alleghany are both small towns. Fayetteville is slightly larger. But still, the chances of randomly running into Natalie weren’t high.
I can’t help but wonder why she went there, knowing there was a chance she might run into me. As far as I could tell, she was happy to pretend we never happened.
The football falls to the bed. I shove one hand into the pocket of my shorts, extracting the piece of paper I’ve studied a dozen times in the past few hours. I memorized the series of numbers several glances ago, so I’m not sure why I keep experiencing the compulsion to look at it.
It’s proof, I guess. Of something there’s no other evidence of.
She gave me her number. She didn’t tell me to use it. Just offered to listen. Our situations aren’t really comparable. The pressure I’m under about football—my father’s expectations—aren’t a secret in Glenmont. Natalie’s situation is much more delicate.
Do you give your number to a guy you never want to talk to again? Was it pity? Obligation?
I wish I had someone—anyone—to ask. I have no idea how to handle things with Natalie. No expectation therewouldbe anything to handle after we left the Cape. And rather than the prospect of doing nothing being a relief, it’s swamped me with second-guessing, wondering if she wants me to reach out. If she cares at all.
It takes me an embarrassingly long time to decide on three letters and press send.