Page 111 of Personal Foul

Pulling out her phone, she shakes her head. “I don’t think they were planning on that, but you could talk to them about it. I told them that I would give you their number. I also gave them yours. They should be calling tomorrow or Friday. But if you’re really interested, you should call them ASAP.”

My phone vibrates with a text message from her containing the contact information for that family. “Thank you so much, Hope. I owe you big time.”

“I’d say I’d make you pay me back in babysitting, but you’ve already done a ton of free babysitting for me. Plus, I think you’ll have your hands full with the Millers’ kids soon.”

“Let’s hope so.”

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Dylan

Making my way into my bedroom, I strip out of my clothes, leaving them in a trail on the floor behind me. I should pick them up and put them in the hamper, but I don’t care right now. It’s not like it matters. I’m the only one who will see.

Normally there’d be the possibility of one of my friends coming over unannounced. But every time that’s happened this week, I’ve turned them away.

It’s Friday night, and Andrew and Liam finally convinced me to come out. They’ve been hounding me all week, ever since they found out that Charity and I broke up. They told me I need to find a rebound. I’m really not interested, though.

I went out for a few drinks tonight, and they both tried to wingman me hard. Way too hard. To the point that they were practically scaring the chicks away, I didn’t even need to do it with my bad attitude. Eventually, though, I got bored. Annoyed with the noise and with my friends. It’s not their fault. I know that. I’m the problem. But right now, I just want to be by myself.

I change into athletic shorts and grab a textbook. I realize it’s pathetic that I’m studying on a Friday night, but I might as well make good use of my time. It’s not like I have anything better to do, and as my parents have reminded me countless times since I left on Saturday night, I have family expectations to uphold.

Without Charity dragging me down—I hate even thinking that phrase—I can soar to such amazing heights, as both my parents have reminded me. They were practically overjoyed when I told them it was over.

“Good,” my dad boomed. “I’m glad you’ve come to your senses.”

Just thinking about that conversation makes me want to put my fist through the wall. I don’t, though. I have more control than that. Maybe I should go for a run, though. Except running won’t put any distance between me and my feelings.

As I stand in the middle of my living room, hands on my hips, debating whether or not to put on a shirt and go for a run, there’s a knock at my door. Irritated, I grab my phone, checking to see if one of my friends texted that they were coming over. But there are no missed notifications.

Wondering which of my friends decided to follow me home, I grab the door handle and yank it open, barking, “What?” before I even see who it is.

Charity takes a half step back and blinks at me. “Oh, uh, sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll just go.” And she turns to leave.

“No!” I step through the door, reaching out a hand to stop her. “Don’t. I’m sorry. I assumed you were one of my friends.”

She gives a rueful laugh. “Yeah, but it’s just me. Not one of your friends. Don’t worry.”

I make a frustrated noise in my throat. “That’s not what I meant and you know it. One of my teammates,” I correct myself. “Better?”

A small smile curves her lips, but there’s a sadness lingering behind it. “Seriously, though—”

“Did you come to talk to me?” I interrupt before she can make another excuse to leave.

She studies me for a moment, her eyes tracking down my torso, and that’s when I remember I don’t have a shirt on. Crossing my arms, I lean against the door frame, well aware of the fact that this posture highlights my pecs and my biceps.

Her eyes stay glued to my chest until I clear my throat. Startled, she jerks her gaze up to meet mine. I raise my eyebrows, a smirk playing around my lips.

With an aggravated sigh, she lets her head fall back, her shoulders slumping in an expression of outward frustration. “Fine. Yes. I came to talk to you.”

I turn, extending a hand to invite her in.

She looks at me warily, waiting a few seconds before rolling her eyes and sidling past me. Since I’m taking up so much of the doorway and I make no effort to move, it forces her to brush against me. “Enjoying yourself?” she murmurs as she enters the apartment.

“Not particularly,” I answer as I pull the door closed behind us. Normally I’d invite her into the living room and offer her a drink. But not this time.

Crossing my arms, I look her over, noticing that her eyes look puffy, like she’s been crying. That’s rich, considering she’s the one who pushed me away. Her hair is in a messy bun, but it’s even messier than normal, with strands falling down and wispy hair standing up all around her head. She doesn’t even look like she has makeup on. Not that she goes around heavily made-up, but she usually wears a little, just enough to make her look polished and play up her natural beauty.

My first instinct is to open my arms for a hug. It’s what I’ve always done when she’s looked upset like this. But the last time I tried, she shied away from my touch.

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