“You’d be surprised at how much I get through at the hotel,” I remark, lifting the slice. “Still the best.” Then I take another bite.
Zach narrows his eyes, unimpressed by that answer. Again, not surprising. I’m horrendously unimpressive these days. Zach, on the other hand, is more impressive than I’d like to admit. He made his own future and is now living it large with his NIL deal and endorsements. Meanwhile, I’m a few months away from washing dishes to pay rent.
Still, in all this man-made happiness, there’s one thing that’s glaringly absent.
Honey.
She’s not here—physically, or otherwise, it would seem. There aren’t any pictures of her, and no one has mentioned her since we got here.
Has something happened between them?
Surely not. The dude is rocking a honeycomb tattoo on his forearm.
Although, she could be dating that guy I saw her in the diner with last week. The thought almost makes me smile like the sadistic bitch I am, but then I remember the other guy that was at the diner with them—Reese. The same guy who was coaching Ella today. I don’t know who he is to Tiff, but I know an overeager asshole who wants her attention when I see one.
I am one.
Well, that’s at least one thing that the Scholarship Kid and I have in common: we’re both having trouble with women.
“More juice, Ella?” Tiff asks, already reaching for the carton.
“Yes, please!” Ella sings, the only one at the table blissfully unaware of the tension. She's been talking nonstop since we got home, filling me in on essential information like which colorcrayon tastes the worst (orange) and how many somersaults she can do in a row (three and a half, apparently).
I watch Tiff with Ella, and the easy way she wipes sauce from her daughter's chin, how she automatically cuts the crust off her second slice without being asked. It's a well-practiced dance, one I've never been part of. The thought hits me hard, knowing I haven’t been there for either of them.
“So,” Zach breaks the silence, his voice artificially casual, “When's your flight back to Southern Collegiate, Nicks?”
Tiff shoots him a warning glance.
“Already told you. I'm not going back,” I say, meeting his gaze directly. “I transferred to St. Michael's. I'm here for the long haul.”
Zach's hand hits the table, and his eyebrows nearly hit his hairline. “You're shitting me.”
“Zach!” Tiff hisses, nodding toward Ella, who perks up immediately.
“That's a bad word, Uncle Zach,” she announces solemnly. “You gotta put a dollar in the jar.”
Zach sighs, reaching for his wallet without argument. “Sorry, princess.” He turns back to me. “I thought you said that earlier to taunt me.”
“No, I'm very serious,” I continue, watching as he extracts a crisp dollar bill from his wallet and hands it to Ella, who scampers off to deposit it in what I assume is a swear jar. “I've enrolled for the semester. Started classes this week.”
“And your daddy's money made that happen, I'm sure.” The bitterness in his voice is unmistakable.
I take a sip of water, choosing my words carefully. “My father cut me off, but I managed to get a few things paid for before he blocked my trust funds. I also have a little backup account from high school that he doesn’t know about.”
“And what are you going to do when the money runs out?” Zach asks calmly.
“I’ll get a job like everyone else,” I say confidently, but inside it scares the ever-loving shit out of me. Jamie Nicks getting a job that his father didn’t set up… pfft. I’m fucking screwed and I know it.
Zach leans back, one arm thrown casually over the chair like this is a friendly chat and not a slow, verbal execution. “You should coach football. You’re way better at teaching four-year-olds than you ever were riding the bench.”
“Zach!” Tiff says sharply, but I don’t take offense. He’s right.
“Yeah,” I mutter, a bitter smile curving my mouth. “I only played because my father believed a Nicks belonged on a field with his name engraved on every brick and bathroom stall.”
Zach snorts. “Sounds like a real warm family dynamic.”
“Only the warmest,” I deadpan. “Hugs were for poor people. We specialized in legacy and champagne-fueled control issues.”