Page 35 of Unloved

She asks me for someone I look up to. I tell her Archer, one of my dad’s coaches, and Rhys. I ask her for her favorite thing to do, and she tells me about her fashion projects and affinity for sewing.

“Will you make me something?”

“Maybe, if you pass biology.”

The mention of the class sours the good feeling for a second before I smother any threatening memories.

“Most embarrassing moment?” she asks, a light crinkle of bedsheets in the background. The thought that she’s lying in bed, letting my voice lull her, makes everything feel softer, more intimate, even through the phone’s speaker.

Lighthearted contentment fills me as I tell her about my first junior hockey game. My mom was sitting at the ice with Archer, holdingup a giant sign and ridiculous foam fingers in our team’s colors. I went a little too quick onto the ice, falling flat on my face and causing a massive dog pile after tripping my teammates coming in behind me. I tell Ro my hurriedness was from nerves or embarrassment, but it wasn’t—I remember seeing my mom and Archer, having this bursting feeling inside me, a desperate need to get closer to them.

She chuckles as I recount the story, especially when I admit I was never allowed to be first out of the tunnel again. I’m so desperate to keep her happy, to pull more laughs from her, I can’t stop myself from continuing.

“And then there’s the time I got caught having sex,” I say, pausing as I hear her choke on something at my confession—maybe water. “Well, actually, I’ve gotten caughta lot, but this time was worse.”

Recounting the story of Archer and my mom catching me with the literal girl next door isn’t as painful to tell, especially when I leave out the fact that we were both fifteen. I do tell her it was my first time, because that alone is embarrassing.

“What was really painful,” I tell her, “was the splinters of wood from the treehouse in my ass and the humiliation of having Archer remove them with tweezers.”

We both cackle at my expense, my smile so big my cheeks ache.

“What about you?” I ask once her giggles have subsided. “Most embarrassing moment?”

“Too many to count.” Ro pauses, and I let her think, humming theJeopardytheme under my breath as she gathers her thoughts.

“Okay, um, I had to go to this retreat with my team last year in New York for the weekend. It was my first time going on a trip with my boyfriend and I decided to, um… buy these kindasexythings to wear.”

My grin is uncontainable. “You can say lingerie, Rosalie.”

She clears her throat, and I know if I could see her face, it wouldbe that same beautiful rose gold hue. “Right. But, um, Tyler and I had the same bag—because he let me borrow his—and they got mixed up in the Uber. So when he opened it, there was all this frilly girlylingerie…” She struggles to say the word, almost whispering it. “And it was so humiliating. I’m the only girl on our cohort, and the guys would not let me live it down.”

“C’mon,” I say. “It would’ve beenmuchbetter to razz Tyler than you. I can think of at least five perfect jokes right now.”

The words seem to cheer her up as she nervously giggles into the phone. “Yeah, maybe. It was kind of all for nothing, too.”

My eyebrows dip. “What do you mean?”

“Tyler didn’t like it.” She yawns. I try not to say anything, biting my tongue with the insults I want to sling Donaldson’s way. Instead, I’m quiet, letting her fill the space. “He was so embarrassed he told everyone we were on a break—that it wasn’t for him. He wanted me to throw it all away, said it made me look like a slut. Which is terrible, and I’m not. I swear.”

Again, the words are said on a laugh, and I’m ready to punch this kid because he’s somehow warped her into thinking thisawfulstory about her being treated horribly by herthen boyfriendis somehow embarrassing for her.

So I’m honest. “The only person who should be embarrassed is Tyler.”

We’re both silent for a little too long before she concedes. “Maybe you’re right. That wasn’t a good story. I’ll think of a better one.”

I don’t want to let her go, but she’s yawning between every other word.

“All right, why don’t you tell me next tutoring session?”

“Mm-hmm,” she whispers.

Ro’s asleep, I realize, and I don’t want to hang up. So I leave my phone on the pillow, muting it as I head downstairs for a water. Rhys’s bedroom door is shut tight, and there’s an almostoverwhelming pull to knock and check on him on my way back, but I grit my teeth and turn to my own room.

He doesn’t need my brand of help. Reiner is better for him anyway.

After a quick shower, I tuck into bed with my phone next to me, the quiet sound of Ro’s breathing lulling me to sleep.

When I come downstairs the next morning, Rhys is dancing in the kitchen.

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