Page 20 of Crossing Lines

Aria doesn’t talk much about her parents; she just says how much she doesn’t like them. I’m not really sure what’s going on there, but I hope one day she’ll tell me.

“I feel you,” I say, meaning it.

“This is me,” she says, waving a hand dramatically at the best hotel in the city.

“Brunch tomorrow?”

“Can’t. Have to leave bright and early in the morning, but I’ll let you know when I’m free next.”

We hug goodbye, and once she’s inside the lobby, I turn to Evren. Evren who’s standing next to a black SUV that wasn’t there moments ago.

He opens the door for me, and I slide into the back seat before he gets in himself and shuts the door.

“Who’s tall, bald, and military?” I ask, gesturing to the driver. I squint. Wait, I’ve seen him lurking around the neighborhood.

“That’s Nate. He’s part of my security team.”

I tsk. “You’ve got to start treating your employees better. You’re making him stay up late when he has to get up and what? Follow you to work before the sun rises?”

“He does, but you’re the one who’s keeping him up late.”

“Nope, that’s all on you.”

“Really?” he asks slowly. “Because you’re the one who called me in the middle of the night. I have to say, I find it a bit concerning that you’re partying on a random Wednesday until morning.”

“That’s fine, because I find your words extremely judgmental for a random Wednesday night.”

“Is this something you regularly do? Get drunk and stay out late during the week?”

“And if it is?” Joke’s on him because I don’t have the money to go out regularly. If I did, I’d limit it to two nights a week max. Two nights is enough to have fun, but not enough to be like my mom.

“Well, as your roommate, I’d like to know what I’m getting into.”

His tone, a familiar undercurrent of condescension, triggers a deep-seated rage. It’s as if he’s echoing my mother’s conclusion about me—that I’m too much to handle, that I’m too much in general.

“Fuck off,” I say, glaring daggers at him. “I never asked for you to be my roommate, and I sure as hell didn’t ask for your opinion on my habits.”

He opens his mouth to say something, and I hold up my hand. “Just. Stop. Talking.”

I stare out the window and fume on the entire way home. When we arrive, I slam through the house and into the pool house with a flip of my middle finger in the air in response to Evren’s quiet goodnight.

I pace the pool house, too worked up to even think about sleeping. Instead, it’s like Evren’s words, and my friends’ insistence that I sell the jacket, all morph into a ball of emotion that’s too much to bear. I don’t even knowwhatI’m feeling, just that I don’t want to feel whatever it is. If I had any alcohol at home, I’d be drinking it, but since I don’t, I’m not left with many options to distract myself with.

My room is already clean and organized, and I’m not in the mood to work on the house. That leaves me with…nothing. Nothing to do, nothing to make this crushing sensation inside my chest go away.

I sit on the edge of my bed, but immediately stand. No, I have to find something to do. And the only possibility is annoying Evren, but I don’t want to see him. Not right now, not so soon after he implied I’m too much.

Wait, that’s it. I should do something over the top, something that would really make me “too much.” I scan my room, looking for ideas, and my gaze keeps snagging on the corner with my sewing materials. The materials I’ve been ignoring since my stupid jacket went viral and all my creativity dried up.

I ignorethat, and instead pull up some other NFL teams’ websites. Maybe I should apply for a job at one, maybe a rival of his? That would surely annoy him. Cackling, I do just that with a burner email account. But after applying to one team, I lose my steam. There are far too many words and questions for me to handle right now.

Shit. What can I do?

Scrolling through social media lasts for five minutes before I toss my phone to the side. Showering takes up another ten minutes. Pacing my small room, twenty. Lying in bed, hoping to sleep lasts thirty.

Ugh, nothing’s working.

I sit up and make my way to my sewing corner. Pulling out a plain white shirt, I sit down, not knowing what I’m going to do with it. That is, until my hands start to work of their own drunken accord. Cutting letters outof fabric, I sew the edges of them onto a shirt creating the wordsover the top. But I want to add something from him, or his team, so that we can both be over the top.

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