Page 70 of Unloved

“And stronger,” she breathes, snuggling closer as I walk into her room. I feel like preening, puffing my chest a little.

“Yeah, princess. And stronger.”

I shoulder the door open, entering her room. It’s small and neat, but well lived in. The decor here lets me know she has a heavy hand in decorating the rest of her and Sadie’s apartment, with its bursts of colors and endless pillows and throw blankets.

I lay her on the bed, using one of the blankets hanging off the end to cover her. My heart feels like it’s gonna beat out of my chest, and the smile on my face is manic at best. But I can’t bring myself to care, not when she looks like that.

Soft, relaxed, and happy.

Turning to leave, I catch sight of a cardboard sign propped up on her desktop, next to a mini sewing machine, half covered by printed articles. A list, I realize, skimming over a few of the items:

Dance on top of a bar likeCoyote Ugly.

Third base in a car.

Skinny-dip! (But don’t get caught or go to jail!)

Go on a crazy spring break trip. (But don’t get arrested!)

A mix of handwriting, neat and scribbled, with little doodles and drawings.

And checkmarks, notably beside a few of the more sexual items on the list. There’s a pang in my chest, pressure that makes me rub at it. I know it was Tyler who did any of that with her, and I can’t help but hate him all the more for it.

I look away from the cardboard, back to Ro’s sleeping form, and blow a breath out. It’s easier to relax, to let it go, when I see her so vulnerable and trusting.

So I file the information away—that the list exists at all—into my Rosalie Shariff folder, and secretly hope that it’ll bemenext time drawing checkmarks in the margins with her.

CHAPTER 26Freddy

There are two texts from Archer and two missed calls from my dad waiting for me after I finish the morning portion of our two-a-day practice.

I swipe away the texts, hoping enough people will message me to bury them deep in my inbox, away from my curiosity.

I’m here if you ever need someone.

Desperate to get Archer’s gruff, sad tone out of my head, I call my father back before he loses his shit on me in my voicemail—again.

“Hey,” I say carefully when he picks up.

“What thefuckwas that?” He is nearly growling. I hear a door slam closed in the background before he really starts in. “You lead as top scorer for your exhibition games, then sit on your fucking ass waiting for the real shit to start?”

I’m ten years old and I’m cold.

I reach for my bedroom door and pull it shut, like the action will shake my mind away from dangerous territory. “I didn’t—”

He cuts me off. “I sent goddamnscoutsto see you, dumbass,” he says. “You ungrateful asshole—might as well quit now. It would be the right thing to do, considering all you keep doing is fucking up everything I’ve built.”

I’m ten years old and my dad won’t look at me.

“You’re a goddamn embarrassment, Matt.”

My mind is splintering, every thought making my head pound harder and harder.

I’m ten and I’m cold.

I’m ten and I’m cold, nerves making me shiver more than the briskness of the rink. It’s already crowded, kids around my age scattered along the benches, their fathers kneeling to tie skates for the younger ones, some chatting with each other.

I look up at my dad with a gap-toothed smile, but he isn’t looking at me—he’s looking around the room.

---