“Appreciated,” he deadpans as he taps his stick against the boards. “And for the record, I’m this close to finally nailing that spin move, so I expect applause next time you’re here.”
“I’ll bring a banner,” I shoot back, slinging my bag over my shoulder.
That grin. Easy, boyish, and dangerous for how much lighter it makes the air. For the first time all afternoon, the space between us doesn’t feel like a minefield. More like neutral ground.
Still, I hesitate, my fingers tightening on my bag strap. “We’re good?” The question slips out before I can stop it, quiet and tentative.
Chris doesn’t even blink. “We’re good.”
Something in me exhales, shaky and brittle, but it’s enough to keep me standing. One crisis averted.
But as I step out into the cold, the truth gnaws at me. I can patch things with Chris. I can fake my way through midterms. I can even survive my father’s internship from hell. What I can’t do is keep pretending my life isn’t cracking down the middle while everyone’s watching to see if I’ll break the way I always have.
“Son of a—” I bite back the curse as another strip of light blue wallpaper refuses to align with the previous one. Pulling it back carefully, I try again, determined to get this right before Tiff and Ella arrive in two days.
My muscles ache from practice, but this is more important than rest. Ella's playroom needs to be perfect. After everything they've been through, I want their first impression of their new home to be magical.
“Come on, you piece of shit,” I mutter, pressing the seam flat only to have another bubble appear a few inches away.
My phone buzzes on the stepladder, and I grab it, hoping it's Honey. But it's just another email from a sponsor asking for a last-minute appearance at some event. I ignore it, tossing the phone back onto the ladder with more force than necessary.
I'm exhausted. Between practice, sponsor obligations, team meetings, and now preparing the house for Tiff and Ella, I can't remember the last time I had a full night's sleep. And yet, I'm still expected to be the star quarterback, the model athlete, the face of the program, always smiling, always accommodating. I’m always expected to be on.
And if I’m being honest, it's starting to wear me down.
“I should've just paid someone to do this,” I mutter, stretching to smooth out another bubble. The stepladder wobbles precariously beneath me.
“And miss the chance to see Zach Evans defeated by adhesive paper? Never.”
I nearly fall off the ladder at the sound of Honey's voice. Turning, I find her leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed and a small smile playing on her lips. She's wearing jeans and my sweatshirt, her hair is loose around her shoulders, and even with the tension that's been building between us lately, the sight of her makes my heart skip. I have a feeling it always will.
“How long have you been standing there?” I ask, climbing down.
“Long enough to hear you threaten bodily harm to wet paper.” Her smile widens. “Need help?”
“God, yes.” I run a hand through my hair, not caring that it's probably sticking up in all directions now. “I've got the adhesive everywhere except where it's supposed to go.”
She steps into the room, surveying my handiwork with an appraising eye. The first wall is mostly covered, though severalseams don't quite match up, and there's an unfortunate wrinkle running down the center of the wall, but I'll cover that with a TV.
“Not bad for a first attempt,” she says diplomatically.
“Liar.” I can't help but laugh. “It looks like I let a toddler do it. Fitting, I guess, since it's for Ella.”
“She'll love it no matter what,” Honey assures me, picking up the next roll of wallpaper. “The color alone will win her over. Very Queen Blanca fromIced Out.”
“I hope so.” I watch as she measures and cuts carefully, her movements much more confident than mine. “How do you know what you’re doing?”
“When I was thirteen, my mother hired a designer for our Aspen vacation home. I was dragged along and since I had no friends there, I asked the designer if I could help. My mother hated it, but she wasn’t around long enough to stop me.” She shrugs, and I know it’s supposed to be a nothing burger of a story, but it tells me so much about her. About how alone she’s always been, and never really fitting in.
“I didn't know that,” I say quietly.
Something flickers across her face—a sadness that I first started seeing last night. “There's a lot we haven't talked about lately, isn't there?”
The directness of her question catches me off guard. I was expecting to ease into this conversation, to find the right moment after we'd finished with the playroom, but maybe there's no perfect moment for the truth.
“Yeah,” I admit. “There is.”
She nods, then gestures to the wallpaper. “Let's work while we talk. You hold this end up, and I'll smooth it out.”