Garrett
HANNAH SHOWS UP around five in a thick parka with a fur hood and bright red mittens. The last I checked, there wasn’t a speck of snow on the ground, but now I’m wondering if I somehow slept through a blizzard when I was taking my catnap.
“Did you just fly in from Alaska?” I ask as she unzips the puffy parka.
“No.” She sighs. “I’m wearing my winter coat because I couldn’t find my other one. I thought I might have left it here.” She glances around my bedroom. “I guess not, though. Ugh. I hope I didn’t leave it in the music room. I just know one of those freshman girls is going to steal it. And I love that coat.”
I snicker. “What’s your excuse for the mittens?”
“My hands were cold.” She cocks her head. “What’s your excuse for the ice pack?”
I realize I’m still holding an ice pack to my side, right where Greg Braxton’s behemoth body had slammed into me. I’m bruised to shit, and Hannah gasps when I lift the bottom of my shirt to show her the fist-sized purple bruise on my skin.
“Oh my God! Did that happen at your game?”
“Yup.” I slide off the bed and head for my desk to grab my Ethics books. “St. Anthony’s has the Incredible Hulk on their team. He loves to wail on us.”
“I can’t believe you willingly put your body through this,” she marvels. “It can’t be worth it, can it?”
“It is. Trust me, a few scrapes and bruises are nothing compared to the thrill of being on the ice.” I glance over at her. “Do you skate?”
“Not really. I mean, I have skated. But I usually just go around in circles on the rink. I’ve never had to hold a stick or chase a puck around.”
“Is that what you think hockey is?” I ask with a grin. “Holding a stick and chasing a puck?”
“Of course not. I know there’s a lot of skill involved, and it’s definitely intense to watch,” she admits.
“It’s intense to play.”
She perches on the edge of my bed, tilting her head curiously. “Have you always wanted to play? Or is it something your dad forced you into?”
I tense. “What makes you think that?”
Hannah shrugs. “Someone told me your dad is like a hockey superstar. I know there are a lot of parents out there who force their kids to follow in their footsteps.”
My shoulders are even stiffer now. I’m surprised she hasn’t brought up my father before now—I doubt there’s anyone at Briar who doesn’t know I’m Phil Graham’s son—but I’m also startled by how perceptive she is. Nobody has ever asked me if I actually enjoy playing hockey. They just assume I must love it because my father played.
“He pushed me into it,” I confess in a gruff voice. “I was skating before I even hit the first grade. But I kept playing because I love the sport.”
“That’s good,” she says softly. “I think it’s important to be doing what you love.”
I’m afraid she might ask more questions about my father, so I clear my throat and change the subject. “So which philosopher should we start with
—Hobbes or Locke?”
“You pick. They’re both incredibly boring.”
I chuckle. “Way to make me enthusiastic about it, Wellsy.”
But she’s right. The next hour is brutal, and not just because of the mind-numbingly dull theories. I’m absolutely starving because I slept through lunch, but I refuse to end the session until I’ve mastered the material. When I studied for the midterm before, I focused only on the major points, but Hannah makes me examine every last detail. She also forces me to rephrase each theory, which I have to admit, gives me a better handle on the convoluted crap we’re studying.
After we’d muddled through it all, Hannah quizzes me on everything we’ve read these past few days, and when she’s satisfied I know my stuff, she closes the binder and nods.
“Tomorrow we’ll start applying the theories to actual ethical dilemmas.”
“Sounds good.” My stomach grumbles so loudly it practically shakes the walls, and I wince.
She snorts. “Hungry?”
“Famished. Tuck does all the cooking in the house, but he’s not home tonight so I was going to order a pizza.” I hesitate. “Do you want to stick around? Have a couple slices and maybe watch something?”
She looks surprised by the invitation. It surprises me too, but honestly, I wouldn’t mind the company. Logan and the others went out to hit up a party, but I wasn’t in the mood to tag along. And I’ve managed to get ahead on all my course readings, so I’ve got shit all to do tonight.
“What do you want to watch?” she asks warily.
I gesture to the stack of Blu-Rays next to my TV. “Dean just got every season of Breaking Bad. I keep meaning to watch it but I never have time.”
“Is that the show about the heroine dealer?” “Meth cooker. I hear it’s fucking awesome.”
Hannah runs her fingers through her hair. She seems reluctant to stay, but equally reluctant to go.
“What else do you have to do tonight?” I prompt.
“Nothing,” she says glumly. “My roommate is spending the night at her boyfriend’s, so I was just going to watch TV anyway.”
“So do it here.” I grab my cell phone. “What do you like on your pizza?”
“Um…mushrooms. And onions. And green peppers.”
“So pretty much all the boring toppings?” I shake my head. “We’re getting bacon and sausage and extra cheese.”
“Why bother asking me what I like if you’re not going to order any of
it?”
“Because I was hoping you’d have better taste than that.”
“I’m sorry you find vegetables boring, Garrett. Why don’t you give me
a call when you get scurvy?”
“Scurvy is a deficiency of Vitamin C. You don’t put sunshine or oranges on pizza, sweetheart.”
In the end, I compromise by ordering two pizzas, one with Hannah’s boring-ass toppings, the other loaded with meat and cheese. I cover the mouthpiece and glance at her. “Diet Coke?”
“What do I look like, a pansy? Regular Coke, thank you very much.”
Chuckling, I place our order, then put in the first disc of Breaking Bad.
We’re twenty minutes in when the doorbell rings.
“Wow. Fastest pizza delivery guy ever,” Hannah remarks.
My stomach is not complaining in the slightest. I head downstairs and grab our food, then pop into the kitchen to grab paper towels and a bottle of Bud Light from the fridge. At the last second, I grab an extra bottle in case Hannah wants one.
But when I offer it to her upstairs, she vehemently shakes her head. “No, thank you.”
“What, you’re too much of a prude to have one beer?” Discomfort flickers in her eyes. “I’m not a big drinker, okay?”
I shrug and crack open my beer, taking a deep swig as Hannah rips a piece of paper towel off the roll and pries a gooey vegetable-covered slice out of the box.
We settle on the bed to eat, neither of us speaking as I turn the show back on. The pilot episode is amazing, and Hannah doesn’t object when I click on the next one.
There’s a female in my bedroom and neither of us is naked. It’s strange. But kinda nice. We don’t talk much during the show—we’re too engrossed by what’s happening on the screen—but once the second episode ends, Hannah turns to me and gapes.
“Oh my God, imagine not knowing that your husband is cooking meth?
Poor Skylar.”
“She’s definitely going to find out.” Hannah gasps. “Hey. No spoilers!”
“That’s not a spoiler,” I protest. “It’s a prediction.” She relaxes. “Okay, good.”
She picks up her Coke can and takes a deep swig. I’ve already demolished my pizza, but Hannah’s is only half done, so I steal a piece and take a big bite.
“Ohhhh, look who’s eating my boring pizza. Can anyone say hypocrite?”
“It’s not my fault you eat like a bird, Wellsy. I can’t let food go to waste.”
“I had four slices!”
I have to concede, “Yeah, that actually makes you a total pig compared to the girls I know. The most they ever eat is half a starter salad.”
“That’s because they need to stay rail-thin so guys like you will find them attractive.”
“There’s nothing attractive about a woman who’s all skin and bones.” “Uh-huh, I’m sure you’re so turned off by skinny women.”
I roll my eyes. “No. I’m just saying I prefer ’em curvy.” I swallow my last bite before reaching for another slice. “A man likes having something to grab onto when he’s…you know.” I arch my eyebrows at her. “It goes both ways, though. I mean, wouldn’t you rather sleep with a guy who’s built over one who’s a twig?”
She snorts. “Is this the part where I compliment you on your super hot bod?”
“You think I’m super hot? Thanks, baby.”
“No, you think you’re super hot.” She purses her lips. “But I suppose you have a point. I’m not attracted to scrawny guys.”
“Then I guess it’s a good thing Loverboy is shredded like lettuce, huh?” She sighs. “Would you stop calling him that?”
“Nope.” I chew thoughtfully. “I’ll be honest. I don’t know what you see in him.”
“Why, because he’s not Mr. Big Man on Campus? Because he’s serious and smart and not a raging manwhore?”
Shit, I guess she’s bought into Kohl’s act. If I had a hat, I’d probably tip it off to the guy for successfully creating a persona that drives women wild
—the nerd athlete.
“Kohl isn’t what he seems,” I say roughly. “I know he comes off as the smart, mysterious jock, but there’s something…slimy about him.”
“I don’t think he’s slimy at all,” she objects.
“Right, because you’ve had a plethora of deep, meaningful conversations with him,” I crack. “Trust me, he’s putting on a show.”
“Agree to disagree.” She smirks. “Besides, you’re in no position to judge who I’m interested in. From what I hear, you only date airheads.”
I smirk right back. “You’re wrong.” “Am I?”
“Yup. I only sleep with airheads. I don’t date.”
“Slut.” She pauses, curiosity etching into her face. “How come you don’t date? I’m sure every girl at this college would kill to be your girlfriend.”
“I’m not looking for a relationship.”
That perplexes her. “Why not? Relationships can be really fulfilling.” “Says the woman who’s single.”
“I’m single because I haven’t found anyone I connect with, not because I’m anti-relationship. It’s nice having someone to spend time with. You know, talking, cuddling, all that mushy stuff. Don’t you want that?”
“Eventually. But not right now.” I flash a cocky grin. “If I ever feel the need to talk to someone, I’ve got you.”
“So your airheads get the s*x, and I’m the one who has to listen to you babble?” She shakes her head. “I feel like I’m getting the short end of that deal.”
I wiggle my eyebrows. “Aw, you want the s*x too, Wellsy? I’m happy to give it to you.”
Her cheeks turn the brightest shade of red I’ve ever seen, and I burst out laughing.
“Relax. I’m just kidding. I’m not stupid enough to bone my tutor. I’ll end up breaking your heart, and then you’ll feed me false information, and I’ll fail the midterm.”
“Again,” she says sweetly. “You’ll fail the midterm again.”
I flip up my middle finger, but I’m grinning as I do it. “You taking off now or should I put on Episode 3?”
“Episode 3. Definitely.”
We get comfortable on the bed again, me on my back with my head on three pillows, Hannah on her stomach at the foot of the bed. The next episode is intense, and once it’s done, we’re both eager to watch the next one. Before I know it, we’re done with the first disc and moving on to the second. In between cliffhangers, we discuss what we’ve just seen and make predictions, and honestly? I haven’t had this much platonic fun with a girl in…well, ever.
“I think his brother-in-law is on to him,” Hannah muses.
“Are you kidding me? I bet they save that reveal for the end. I think Skylar’s gonna find out soon, though.”
“I hope she divorces him. Walter White is the devil. Seriously. I hate him.”
I chuckle. “He’s an anti-hero. You’re supposed to hate him.”
The next episode comes on, and we shut up immediately, because this is the kind of show that requires your full attention. The next thing I know, we’ve reached the season finale, which ends with a scene that leaves us wide-eyed.
“Holy shit,” I exclaim. “We’re done with the first season.”
Hannah bites her lip and steals a glance at the alarm clock. It’s nearly ten o’clock. We’ve just watched seven episodes without so much as a bathroom break.
I expect her to announce it’s time for her to go, but she sighs instead. “Do you have season two?”
I can’t control my laughter. “You want to keep watching?” “After that finale? How can we not?”
She makes a good point.
“At least the premiere,” she says. “Don’t you want to see what happens?”
I totally do, and so I don’t object when she gets up to load the next disc. “You want a snack or something?” I offer.
“Sure.”
“I’ll go see what we have.”
I find two microwave popcorn pouches in the kitchen cupboard, nuke them both, and head back upstairs with two bowls of popcorn in my hands.
Hannah has stolen my spot, her dark hair fanned on my stack of pillows, legs stretched out in front of her. Her red and black polka dot socks make me grin. I’ve noticed she doesn’t wear designer clothing or preppy getups like most of the females at this school, or the trashy party clothes you see on Greek Row and at the campus bars on weekends. Hannah is all about skinny jeans and leggings and tight-fitting sweaters, which might look elegant if she didn’t always throw in a flash of bright color. Like the socks, or the mittens, or those quirky hair clips she wears.
“Is one of those for me?” She gestures to the bowls I’m holding. “Yup.”
I hand one over, and she sits up and shoves her hand inside, then giggles. “I can’t eat popcorn without thinking about Napoleon.”
I blink. “The emperor?”
She laughs harder. “No, my dog. Well, my family’s dog. He’s in Indiana with my parents.”
“What kind of dog?”
“A huge mutt crossed with a gazillion breeds, but he mostly looks like a German shepherd.”
“Does Napoleon like popcorn?” I ask politely.
She grins. “He loves it. We got him when he was a puppy, and this one time—I was about ten—my parents took me to the movies, and he broke into the cupboards when we were out and managed to get into a box of microwave popcorn packets. There were like fifty of them in there. My mom is all about sales, so if there’s ever a great deal at the grocery store, she’ll buy up the entire shelf of whatever product is on sale. I guess that month it was Orville Redenbacher’s. I swear, that dog ate every single one of them, packaging included. He was pooping out whole kernels and bits of paper for days.”
I snicker.
“My dad was freaking out,” she says. “He thought Napoleon would get food poisoning or something, but the vet said it was no biggie and that it would all come out eventually.” She pauses. “Do you have any pets?”
“No, but my grandparents had a cat when I was growing up. Her name was Peaches and she was batshit crazy.” I shovel a handful of popcorn into my mouth, chuckling as I chew. “She was sweet to me and my mom, but she fucking hated my dad. Which isn’t surprising, I guess. My grandparents hated him too, so she must have been following their lead. But man, she terrorized the old bastard.”
Hannah grins. “What’d she do?”
“Scratch him any chance she got, piss on his shoes, that kind of stuff.” I suddenly burst out laughing. “Oh shit, the best thing she ever did? It was Thanksgiving and we were at my grandparents’ place in Buffalo, and we’re all gathered at the table about to eat when Peaches comes in through the cat door. Right behind the house was this ravine, so she used to prowl around there. Anyway, she waltzes inside and she’s got something in her mouth, but none of us can tell what it is.”
“Oh God. I don’t like where this is going.”
I’m grinning so hard it hurts. “Peaches jumps up on the table like she’s the queen of the castle or some shit, strolls along the edge of the tablecloth, and dumps a dead rabbit on my father’s plate.”
Hannah gasps. “Seriously? Gross!”
“Gramps is pissing himself laughing, and Gran is freaking out because she thinks all the food on the table is contaminated now, and my dad…” My humor fades as I remember the look on the old man’s face. “Let’s just say he wasn’t pleased.”
Understatement of the year. A chill runs up my spine as I recall what happened when we got back to Boston a few days later. What he did to my mother as punishment for “shaming” him, as he’d accused her of doing during his rage.
The only saving grace is that Mom died a year later. She wasn’t there to witness it when he turned his rage on me, and I’m grateful for that every day of my life.
Beside me, Hannah goes somber as well. “I’m not seeing my parents for Thanksgiving.”
I glance over, studying her face. It’s obvious she’s upset, and her soft confession distracts me from the crushing memories pressing down on my chest. “Do you usually go home?”
“No, we go to my aunt’s for the holidays, but my folks can’t afford it this year, and I…can’t afford to go to them.”
There’s a false note there at the end, but I can’t imagine what she might be lying about.
“It’s okay,” she murmurs when she sees the sympathy on my face. “There’s always Christmas, right?”
I nod, though for me, there are no holidays. I’d rather slit my wrists than go home and spend the holidays with my father.
I set my popcorn bowl on the nightstand and pick up the remote. “Ready for season two?” I ask in a casual voice. The conversation has gotten too heavy, and I’m eager to derail it.
“Bring it on.”
This time I sit beside her, but there’s still two feet of space between us. It’s messed up how much I’m enjoying this. Just hanging out with a girl without worrying about how I’m going to get rid of her or that she’s going to start making demands on me.
We watch the premiere episode of season two, followed by the next one, and then the next one…and the next thing I know, it’s three in the morning.
“Oh crap, is that the time?” Hannah blurts out. As she voices the question, a huge yawn overtakes her face.
I rub my weary eyes, unable to fathom how it got this late without either one of us noticing. We’ve literally watched a season and a half of television in one sitting.
“Shit,” I mumble.
“I can’t believe how late it is.” She yawns again, which triggers a yawn of my own, and then we’re both sitting in my dark bedroom—I don’t even remember turning off the light—yawning like two people who haven’t slept in months.
“I should go.” She stumbles off the bed and rakes her hands through her hair. “Where’s my phone? I need to call a cab.”
My next yawn nearly breaks my jaw. “I can drive you,” I say groggily, sliding off the mattress.
“No way. You had two beers tonight.”
“Hours ago,” I object. “I’m good to drive.” “No.”
Exasperation courses through me. “I’m not letting you take a cab and walk through campus at three in the fucking morning. Either I drive you, or you stay here.”
She looks startled. “I’m not staying here.” “Then I’m driving you. No argument.”
Her gaze travels to the two Bud bottles on the nightstand. I sense her reluctance, but I also see the exhaustion lining her features. After a moment, her shoulders droop and she lets out a breath. “Fine. I’ll crash on your couch.”
I’m quick to shake my head. “No. It’s better if you sleep in here.”
Wrong thing to say, because her body goes stiffer than a board. “I’m not sleeping in your bedroom.”
“I live with three hockey players, Wellsy. Who, by the way, still aren’t home from a night of partying. I’m not saying it’ll happen, but there’s a chance one of them might stumble into the living room drunk off their asses and grope you or something if they find you on the couch. I, on the other
hand, have no interest in groping you.” I gesture to my massive bed. “This thing can sleep seven. You won’t even know I’m here.”
“You know, a gentleman would offer to sleep on the floor.” “Do I look like a gentleman to you?”
She laughs at that. “Nope.” There’s a beat of silence. “Okay, I’ll crash here. But only because I can barely keep my eyes open, and I really don’t want to wait for a taxi.”
I walk over to my dresser. “You want something to sleep in? T-shirt?
Sweatpants?”
“A T-shirt would be great.” Even in the darkness, I can make out the flush on her cheeks. “Do you have an extra toothbrush?”
“Yup. Cabinet under the sink.” I give her one of my old T-shirts, and she disappears into the bathroom.
I strip off my shirt and jeans and climb into bed in my boxers. As I get comfortable, I hear the toilet flush and the faucet turn on and off, and then Hannah returns, her bare feet softly slapping the hardwood. She stands at the side of the bed for so long that I finally groan in irritation.
“Would you get in bed already?” I grumble. “I don’t bite. And even if I did, I’m half asleep. So quit looming over me like a weirdo and get in here.”
The mattress dips slightly as she climbs on the bed. There’s a tug on the blanket, a rustling and a sigh, and then she’s lying beside me. Well, not quite. She’s all the way on the other side of the bed, no doubt clinging to the edge of the mattress so she doesn’t fall off.
I’m too tired to make a sarcastic remark so I just mumble, “Night” and close my eyes again.
“Night,” she murmurs back.
A few seconds later, I’m dead to the world.
