Page 192 of How to Lose at Love

“I can’t act normal. My daughter is moving in with her boyfriend, who happens to be going through the NFL draft, who happens to be Duke Colter’s brother. There is no chill, Ryann.”

He’s holding one of the last boxes of my bathroom essentials when Dallas walks through the door, also carrying a box of my stuff.

He overhears my dad and glances over, setting my box at the bottom of the stairs so we can take it to the bathroom when we go up.

“Why is there no chill, Ryann?”

My boyfriend wipes his hands down the front of his jeans.

I roll my eyes. “My dad keeps expecting Duke to materialize and waltz through the door, and if he does, Dadwillshit his pants.”

“Ryann!” Dad’s eyes bug out of his head. He’s horrified by my declaration, gaze darting back and forth between us. “I would not shit my pants.”

I grin at him. “It’s a metaphor, Dad. We know you’re not going to shit yourself.”

My mom couldn’t make it this weekend; she had a last-minute emergency session with two clients going through a divorce who needed mediation. But she’s had her fill of Dallas, having met him a few times when I brought him home, then again when he came with us on a short spring break trip to my grandparents’ condo in Florida.

Plus, she wasn’t keen on the idea of manual labor.

Mom isn’t the warm-and-fuzzy maternal type—she learned what she needed to know about Dallas and is fine with Dad taking the reins on this moving weekend since it’s mostly heavy lifting and moving things from my apartment to the boys’ house.

Dallas actually doesn’t have much time left to live in this house. The football draft is looming, and if he makes a team (which he will), he’ll have to move to the city where the team is located while I finish my senior year.

I’m not sure where the time went, but never ever would I have thought I would be living with a guy during college.

Correction: a guy and his twin brothers.

Then it will be down to Drake, Drew, and me.

How I got here, I will never know.

Oh, that’s right—Dallas dumped me for Diego.

Diego…

Speaking of him, he and I finally had our reckoning—I was finally able to ask him face to face why he didn’t break up with me himself, not that it mattered at that point.

By that time, Dallas and I had been dating for two months, and I was bound to run into Diego at some point given that the guys play football together and run in the same circles.

I wasn’t exactly expecting Diego to come walking through the Colters’ front door for the party they were having; up until then, he’d either not shown up or made an excuse not to come, but in this instance, he chose to come.

I was leaning against the doorway of the kitchen, watching the guys watch the Texas Steers game, the energy in the house electric because Duke was playing and the Steers were kicking ass and taking names.

Duke was busy earning his wage, worth a whopping hundred million dollars over the span of a few years.

Mind-blowing.

Anyway.

I digress.

There I was, leaning against the doorway when Diego and two other guys blew through the door, snow blowing in at their backs since we were in the middle of a good old-fashioned, Midwestern snowstorm.

I had hot tea clutched in my palms, warming my hands and my stomach. Brought it to my lips to disguise the surprise in my expression when our eyes made contact across the room—I had to force myself not to look away.

He looked the same, mostly.

Dopier, if that was possible.

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