Page 82 of Goalie Lessons

I was in English class when the call came in. The final class of my final day of high school, and every head in the room turned to me. I could see on the teacher’s face that something was wrong, but I convinced myself it was something impossible. That I had some long-lost relative I’d never met before, and they were the one who had died. They were the cause of that expression on her face.

Of course, that was not the case.

I was taken to the front office, where a social worker informed me that after dropping me off at school that morning, my parents had merged onto Interstate 5, where they immediately got into a head-on collision with an eighteen-wheeler. The driver was texting.

On top of the inheritance and life insurance, I also received a major payout from the trucking company. Which meant I went into my freshman year of college alone, and with far more money than I knew what to do with.

When I finish the story, the silence of the room comes rushing back to meet us, and we stay there in the dark for a moment, just breathing.

I regret sharing it. Now that I’ve told Grayson about it, it’s real. It’s a part of me that exists for him too, and I won’t get to control the way he sees it. I won’t have any say over how he thinks about me now that he knows I spent six months as an orphan.

Does it count as being an orphan if you’re an adult? Will I always be one because my parents died when I was a minor?

Grayson shifts, rocking the entire bed, and I feel something like dread open up in my stomach when he reaches to the other side of the bed and clicks on his lamp before turning to look at me.

The protective coating of darkness is gone, and now I feel raw, exposed. For a second, I close my eyes, trying to summon the words I need to ask him to turn the lamp off again, to bring us back to the soft, secret feeling being in the dark awarded us.

But he speaks before I can, and it makes the anxiety in my chest build.

“Astrid,” he whispers, and I can see in his eyes that the way he’s looking at me is different now. Like I’m something delicate he’ll have to be careful not to break. “I had no idea.”

“It’s fine,” I force out, shaking my head, my entire body feeling stiff. “It’s not a big deal.”

He blinks at me. “What? Of course it is—I mean, I know it was a long time ago for you, but you don’t have to write off the way you feel.”

“I’m perfectly capable of managing how I feel myself.”

Grayson jerks his head back a bit, then shakes it and starts to reach for me. “I know—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for it to come out like that. I just…I want you to know that you can talk to me.”

“I know.” The words come out both snappy and flat, somewhere between apathy and anger. All I want is to stop this, to go back to before I ever said anything, but it’s too late.

Grayson is being nothing but perfect, nothing but considerate and kind, but there’s a percolating anger in my chest that I can’t seem to get rid of. It bubbles there, latching onto all my words, like a parasite that’s taken over my body.

“Astrid,” he rasps, sitting up, his eyes on me as I get to my feet and start to pace, looking for my socks. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to upset you—”

“It’s reallyfine, Grayson,” I say, snapping up one of my socks from the floor and pulling it on. “It’s not—”

“You keep saying it’s fine,” he says, swinging his legs over the bed and staring at me with wide, panicked eyes. “But you’re leaving—I don’t understand why you’re leaving, if everything is fine, Astrid.”

“Because I—” I realize I don’t even have anywhere to go. My plan was to sleep with him in his hotel room. I don’t have one of my own.

What ishappeningto me? Since when do I act like this, allowing myself to rely completely on other people?

When he speaks, his voice is thick, rough. “Astrid. Will you please talk to me?”

“I’ve done enough talking,” I laugh, hearing a bitter note creeping into my tone.

“What does that mean?”

“I told you about my parents, and now you’re looking at me differently. That’s why I don’t tell people about it.”

“That is not why I’m looking at you differently.”

When I snap my gaze up to him, he stands with his arms crossed over his chest, in nothing but his boxers. It’s not fair for him to be so visually distracting—the strong swell of the muscles in his chest, the bulge in his pants. My stupid, foolish body would much rather focus on that than what’s happening between us right now.

I’m not actually sure what’s happening between us, until I see the expression on his face, and realize what he’s about to say.

“Astrid—”

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