I’ve always refused to use alcohol as a crutch. If I’m sad or upset or hurting, I avoid it at all costs because I’m terrified I might rely too heavily on it one day. That I might become addicted.
But goddamn, I could really use a drink right now.
Fighting the urge, I bypass the liquor cabinet in the living room and sprint to the sliding door in the kitchen. Cigarettes. Equally destructive habit, but it’s the lesser of two evils at the moment. I’ll just flood my veins with nicotine—maybe that’ll help with the huge ball of guilt taking up residence in the pit of my stomach.
“Everything okay?”
Big tough hockey player that I am, I jump three feet in the air at the sound of Hannah’s voice.
I spin around and notice her standing at the sink, an empty glass in her hand. I was so out of it I must have flown right past her during my sprint to the door.
Christ, she’s the last person I want to see at the moment.
And look at that¸ she’s wearing Garrett’s jersey again. Just flaunting it in my face now, isn’t she?
“Yeah, everything’s fine,” I mumble, stepping away from the door. Change of plans. Nicotine overdose—no longer needed. Hiding in my bedroom—must get on that.
“Logan.” She approaches me with wary strides. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit. You look upset. Are you okay?”
I flinch when she touches my arm. “I don’t want to talk about it, Wellsy. I really don’t.”
Her green eyes search my face. For so long that I shift in discomfort and break the eye contact. I try to take another step, but she stops me again, blocking my path as she releases a groan of frustration.
“You know what?” she announces. “I can’t fucking take this anymore.”
I blink in surprise. “What are you talking about?”
Rather than answer, she grabs my arm so hard it’s a miracle it stays in its socket. Then she drags me to the kitchen table and forcibly pushes me into a chair. Jeez. She’s freakishly strong for someone so tiny.
“Hannah…” I start uneasily.
“No. I’m done tiptoeing around this.” She yanks out a chair and sits beside me. “Garrett keeps telling me you’ll get over it, but it’s only getting worse, and I hate this awkwardness between us. You used to hang out with us and come to Malone’s and watch movies, and now you don’t, and I miss hanging out with you, okay?” She’s so upset that her shoulders are visibly shaking. “So let’s clear the air, all right? Let’s deal with it head-on.”
She takes a deep breath, then looks me square in the eye and asks, “Do you have a thing for me?”
Aw, hell.
Why, why didn’t I go straight up to my room?
Clenching my teeth, I scrape back my chair. “Well, this has been fun, but I think I’ll go upstairs and kill myself now.”
“Sit down,” she says sternly.
My ass hovers over the chair, but the sharpness of her tone reminds me too much of Coach Jensen when he’s reaming us out at practice, and my fear of authority wins out. I drop back down and blow out a tired breath.
“What’s the point of talking about this, Wellsy? We both know the answer to that question.”
“Maybe, but I still want to hear you say it.”
Annoyance tightens my throat. “Fine, you want to hear it? Do I have a thing for you? Yes, I think I do.”
Shock fills her expression, as if she truly didn’t expect me to reply.
Cue: the longest silence ever. Like, find a rope and tie it around your neck and hang your fucking self silence, because the longer she remains quiet, the more pathetic I feel.
When she finally speaks, she throws me for a loop. “Why?”
My forehead creases. “Why what?”
“Why are you into me?”
If she thought she was clarifying, she’s dead wrong, because I’m still baffled. What kind of question is that?
Hannah shakes her head as if she’s also trying to make sense of it. “Dude, I’ve seen the girls you bring home or flirt with at the bar. You have a type. Tall, skinny, usually blonde. And they’re always hanging all over you and showering you with compliments.” She snorts. “Whereas I just insult you all the time.”
I can’t help but grin. Her sarcasm does veer into insult territory more often than not.
“And you gravitate to the ones who are looking for something temporary. You know, a fun time. I’m not a fun-time girl. I like serious relationships.” She purses her lips thoughtfully. “I never got the sense that you were interested in relationships.”
The accusation raises my hackles. “Why? Because I’m a player?” Indignation makes my tone harsher than I intend for it to be. “Have you ever thought that maybe it’s because I haven’t met the right girl yet? But no, I couldn’t possibly want someone to cuddle with and watch movies with, someone who wears my jersey and cheers for me at games, and cooks dinner with me the way you and Garrett—”
Her snort of laughter makes me stop short.
I narrow my eyes. “What are you laughing about?”
In a heartbeat, the laughter dies and her tone grows serious. “Logan…during that whole speech? You didn’t once say you wanted to do that stuff with me. You said someone.” She beams. “I just got it.”
Well, good for her, because I have no fucking idea what she’s babbling about.
“This entire time, I thought you were looking at me all longing-like. But you were looking at us.” She laughs again. “And all those things you listed right now, they’re things Garrett and I do together. Dude, you don’t want me. You want me and Garrett.”
Alarm flits through me. “If you’re implying I want to have a threesome with you and my best friend, then I can assure you, I don’t.”
“No, you just want what we have. You want the connection and the closeness and all the gooey relationship stuff.”
My mouth snaps shut.
Is she right?
As her words sink in, my muddled brain quickly runs through the fantasies I’ve had about Hannah these past few months, and…well, if I’m being honest, most of them haven’t been sexual. I mean, a few have, because I’m a guy and she’s hot. And she’s also around all the time, therefore providing me with readily available images for my spank bank. But aside from a few naked fantasies, I usually picture PG scenarios. Like I’ll see her and Garrett snuggling on the couch and wish I was in his place.
But…am I wishing I’m in his place with her, or in his place in general?
“Look, I like you, Logan. I really do. You’re funny and sweet, and you’re a sarcastic jackass, which is a quality I happen to love in a guy. But you don’t…” She looks uncomfortable. “…make my heart pound—I guess that’s the best way to put it. No, not even that.” Her voice takes on a faraway note. “When I’m with Garrett, my whole world comes alive. I’m so full of emotion I feel like my heart will overflow, and I know this is going to sound like an exaggeration or maybe kind of obsessive, but sometimes I think I need him more than I need food or oxygen.” She gazes into my eyes. “Do you need me more than oxygen, Logan?”
I gulp.
“Am I the last person you think about when you go to bed and the first one you think about when you wake up?”
I don’t answer.
“Am I?” she pushes.
“No.” My voice comes out hoarse. “You’re not.”
Fucking hell.
She might be right. All this time I’ve been feeling guilty about wanting my best friend’s girl, but I think what I really wanted was my best friend’s relationship. Someone to spend time with. Someone who turns me on and makes me laugh. Someone who makes me…happy.
Like Grace?
The mocking thought slices into my mind like a damn lightsaber.
Shit.
Yeah, someone like Grace. Someone exactly like Grace, with her Ted Bundy rants and her calming presence and—hello, irony.
I broke up with her to avoid getting into a serious relationship with her, and now it turns out that’s what I wanted all along.
“Damn it. I…screwed up.” I rub my eyes, groaning softly.
“That’s not true. We’re good, Logan. I promise.”
“No, I didn’t screw up with us. I ended it with a really great girl tonight because I was so messed up in the head about all this.”
“Aw, shit.” She eyes me sympathetically. “Why don’t you call her and tell her you changed your mind?”
“She kicked me out.” I groan again. “There’s no way she’ll pick up the phone if I call.”
We’re interrupted by Garrett’s voice from the hall. “Seriously, Wellsy, how long does it take you to get a glass of water? Do I need to show you how to use the sink, because if so, that’s just sad—” He quits talking the second he spots me. “Oh hey, man. I didn’t know you were home.”
I hastily slide off the chair and hop to my feet, but it does nothing to ease the suspicion in Garrett’s eyes. Which triggers a fresh rush of guilt. Jesus, does he think something happened between us? Does he honestly believe I’d ever, ever make a move on his girl?
The fact that I’m even wondering that tells me the state of our friendship is even more precarious than I’d thought.
Swallowing hard, I shuffle over to him. “Listen…I’m sorry I’ve been such a dick lately. I was…distracted.”
“Distracted,” he echoes skeptically.
I nod.
He keeps staring at me.
“My head’s on straight now. Honest.”
Garrett peers past me, and although I can’t see Hannah’s face, whatever passes between them causes his broad shoulders to relax. Then he grins and slaps me on the arm. “Well, thank God. Because I was seriously considering promoting Tuck to the number one best friend slot.”
“Are you kidding? Big mistake, G. He’s a terrible wingman. Have you seen his beard?”
“I know, right?”
And just like that, we’re good again. Seriously, chicks need to take a lesson from dudes when it comes to burying the hatchet. We know our shit.
“Anyway, I need to make a call,” I tell him. “Night, guys.”
I’m already pulling up Grace’s number as I dart out of the kitchen and head for the stairs. Texting isn’t an option. I want her to hear my voice. I want her to hear how agonized I am about everything that went down tonight.
To my frustration, the dial tone rings and rings and rings before switching over to voice mail.
The second time I call, it goes straight to voice mail, which tells me she most likely pressed the ignore button.
Crap.
With a crushing sense of defeat, I open a new message and shoot her a text asking if we could talk.
Then I go upstairs and wait.
