With a growl, he grabs hold of me, spinning me and pushing me against my vehicle.
“Let go of me,” I seethe.
“Not until you calm the fuck down and talk to me.” His voice drops and he licks his lips. “Please.”
I hate that my eyes track the movement of his tongue.
Hate that I’m staring at his stupid lips.
His lips are part of his goddamn problem.
“See you at practice, Coach.” I clench my jaw, leveling him with a bored look.
Defeat—something I’m unfamiliar with when it comes to Drew—shines in his blue eyes. “Yeah, man. See you tomorrow.”
He steps back, yanking my beanie off his head, offering it to me.
I don’t take it, just glare at it as though he’s trying to hand me a snake.
“Bray,” he murmurs. “Take it.”
“It’s cold.”
We share a pained look.
And then I leave his annoying ass.
Me: We need to talk about what happened the other night.
Ugh, too formal.
Delete.
Me: I really enjoyed what happened the other night. Did you?
I cringe at my words. What am I, five? Do you like me, Ashton? Check yes or no.
Delete.
It’s going on two days since Ashton and I made out on the couch in his living room and I can’t get what happened between us off my mind. The way his strong lips felt curved around mine, how masculine yet gentle his hands were as they roamed over my body. The intoxicating taste of the Fireball and Twizzlers on his tongue. My body heats at just the thought of where things would’ve gone had Drew not walked in and interrupted. I always thought my feelings for Ashton were one-sided, but that night, the way he was all over me felt anything but one-sided. It felt right. Like we fit perfectly together.
I know there’s a good chance it was the alcohol making the decisions for him, and he most likely regrets the kiss ever happened, but a part of me is hoping he’ll want to do it again. Not that I’m going to get my hopes up. Everyone knows how this type of story plays out: straight girl falls for gay best friend, thinking she’ll be the one to get him to switch teams, only to be let down when he makes it clear he’s gay and not even his best friend can change that.
Which is probably why Ashton hasn’t called or texted me since. He’s trying to figure out how to let me down gently. I should just text him now and get this over with. Tell him it was a mistake before he beats me to the punch.
I start to type out another text when my phone rings in my hand. I jump at the sound, almost dropping it. Not Ashton. My dad. Great.
“Hello.”
“There’s my Mama Mia,” Dad says, laughter in his voice. My heart clenches at his nickname for me. My dad’s side of the family is Italian and growing up I loved to cook pizza with my grandmother. Every time we could make it, my dad would yell out, “Mama Mia, bring me my pizzeria.”
It drove Mom nuts, which is probably why I loved it even more.
“How are you?” he asks. “How’s school?”
“I’m good. School’s keeping me busy. I love my English class, and I’m taking History of Film, which is really cool. I’m also working at the tutoring center.”
“So, you’re still set on becoming a screenwriter?” he asks, trying not to sound disappointed.
“I am. You know it’s my passion.”
Dad sighs in frustration. He hates the film industry, and I can’t blame him. But I refuse to let my mother ruin what I want for my future. I want to write screenplays—be the person who turns books into movies. Dad wants me to stay as far away from the film industry as possible, which is why the one and only time he stood up to my mom was to side with me wanting to go to Atlantic Pointe in Michigan. I think he was hoping if he could get me far enough away from Hollywood, I would change my mind. It’s not happening.
“Why couldn’t your passion be to save lives?” he half-jokes. I know a part of him was hoping I would follow in his footsteps, and many days I wish I could, but I love writing and I can’t imagine doing anything else. When I was in high school, in film class, I wrote a script and the students had to turn it into a mini-film. There’s no greater feeling than when your words come to life on the big screen.
“I’ll leave the lifesaving to you.”
There’s a pause of silence, and I take a deep breath, mentally preparing myself for what’s about to come next.
“I heard your mother called you,” he says, his tone turning apologetic. And there it is. The real reason for his call. “I’m so sorry, sweetie.”
A lump of emotion fills my throat. I hate that Dad feels he has to apologize for the way Mom acts. He’s been doing it for years. Cleaning up after her messes.
“She threatened to not pay my rent.”
Dad sighs. “Only if you don’t come home.”
Of course he defends her. Justifies her actions. God forbid he stand up for his own daughter. Tell his wife the way she’s acting is wrong. He has his own money. He doesn’t need my mom, yet he stays with her and lets her make all the decisions. When he offered to pay for my apartment, after I found out the dorms were full and I would have to be put on a waitlist, I was so grateful. The last thing I want is to graduate in debt, and apartments aren’t cheap. I should’ve known that nothing in life is free. Everything comes at a cost, one way or another. And my parents paying for my apartment means, even though I’m over twenty-two
