Page 88 of Icing on the Cake

A bashful smile spreads across Gerard’s face, and he ducks his head. “Guilty.”

I throw my hands up in exasperation. “Unbelievable. You can’t take no for an answer, can you?”

“Nope.” His bashful smile turns into an outright grin. “Not when I know it’s the right thing for you.”

My shoulders slump in defeat. I hate that Gerard’s persistence is wearing me down. And if I’m being honest with myself, living in the Hockey House is starting to sound less of a nightmare and more of a dream come true.

“Fine,” I grumble. “You win. I’ll move in with you and your band of merry men.”

Gerard pulls me into a bone-crushing hug. “You won’t regret this, Elliot. I promise.”

I huff out a laugh as my face gets smooshed against his broad chest. “We’ll see about that.”

He releases me, and I step back, adjusting my glasses. “But if we’re doing this, I need you to take me to the storage unit downtown to get the rest of my clothes.”

“No problem. We can take my car.”

Gerard gestures to the Subaru parked in the driveway. It’s an older model, but it doesn’t appear to be on its last legs.Thank fuck for that.

We climb inside, and Gerard starts the engine. When we pull out of the driveway, I glance at him from the corner of my eye. The sun streaming through the windshield highlights the strong lines of his jaw. His large hands grip the steering wheel, and the sight makes my stomach flip. I quickly turn my head before he can see my reddening cheeks.Get it together, Elliot. You’re roommates now.

To distract myself from what’s to come, I study the interior of the car. It’s a time capsule from the early 2000s. The cloth seats are worn and faded, with a few small tears haphazardly patched with duct tape. The floorboards are littered with old fast-food wrappers and empty energy drink cans.

I run my hand along the cracked dashboard. The texture of the sun-damaged plastic beneath my fingertips reminds me of one of my parents’ cars. “Did you buy this thing used?”

Gerard nods his head, a fond smile playing on his lips. “Yeah, I’ve had Betsy since I started at BSU.”

“Betsy?” I snort. “You named your car Betsy?”

Gerard pats the steering wheel affectionately. “Yep. She’s been with me through thick and thin. We’ve got a special bond, Betsy and I.”

I roll my eyes, but it’s endearing, in a weird way, how much Gerard loves this car.

Pulling onto the freeway, I take in the rest of the vehicle. The radio is an ancient cassette player, and a shoebox filled with tapes is shoved underneath the passenger seat. I pull it out and rifle through the collection, my eyes widening at each title I read.

“Celine Dion? Shania Twain? Ricky Martin?” I hold up one of the tapes, my voice laced with disbelief. “Gerard, your taste in music is…something else.”

“What can I say? I’m a man of eclectic tastes.”

Placing the box back where I found it, I make a mental note to introduce Gerard to the wonders of Top 40 music later.

The sun visor above my head is pulled down, and I spot the remnants of old parking passes and ski lift tickets tucked into the elastic band. There’s even a faded photograph of a younger Gerard, gap-toothed and grinning, with his arm slung around a boy half his size.

“Who’s this?” I ask, pointing to the picture.

Gerard glances at it briefly before turning his eyes back to the road. “That’s my cousin, Freddy. He’s five years younger than me. That was taken the summer before I started high school.”

I inspect the photograph more closely. Now that he mentions it, I can see the resemblance in their eyes and easy smiles. They’re happy in a way that only comes with the innocence of youth.

“You two are close?” I ask as I snap the sun visor back into place.

“We were,” Gerard says, his voice tinged with a hint of sadness.

“Were?”

“He moved to Europe. His dad got a promotion at some Fortune 500 company. Haven’t seen him since.”

The rest of the drive is filled with easy conversation and pop music on the radio. I dutifully ignore the fact that two songs about crushes play back to back. As much as I love Mandy Moore and Jennifer Paige, the universe can go fuck itself for meddling.

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