Page 38 of Pucked Up Plans
Inwardly, I cringe at the mere thought of doing that.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, not knowing what else to say but needing to fill the uncomfortable silence.
I don’t know how I expect him to respond. Seeing how this entire conversation has thrown me for a loop, it shouldn’t surprise me when he replies, “But you still need to eat.”
“Food seems to be essential.”
“Okay, cool. I guess I’ll see you around. Bye.”
A glance at my phone confirms what I know to be true—he hung up. He’s no longer on the other end of the line. Now, instead of feeling puzzled, I’m angry.
Who does that? Asks someone out on a date and when she gives a reason she can’t go, dismisses the idea altogether?
Walsh Keeley.
And this is precisely the reason I can’t date. Him especially.
Tossing the phone on the bed, I hastily stand up. Mostly dry after our conversation, I stomp over to my dresser and grab clothes.
If Lennon’s with her mother this weekend, at least I don’t have to see the man at pickup. I have no intention of facing him after the way he abruptly ended our call.
My insides flame thinking about how rude he was. It’s so unlike him, at least from what I’ve seen the few times we’ve hung out.
You don’t know him.
Isn’t that the truth.
And now, I probably never will.
CHAPTER 11
WALSH
Ihang up the phone in a rush.
“Okay, cool. I guess I’ll see you around. Bye.”
What the fuck did I say to her?
That’s so not what I wanted. I wanted a date, damn it. I didn’t consider the fact she has no one to babysit Aubrey, but it doesn’t change the fact I still want a date. With Tate. Preferably without the kiddos, but since that’s not a possibility for her, I’ll have to get creative.
I only have one early morning class on Fridays, and practice ended hours ago. Since I don’t have to pick up Lennon at preschool and have the night off from the rink, I have the rest of the day to figure something out. Which isn’t only about food at this point. I have to atone for the asinine behavior I displayed. Very high school of me.
Heading down the stairs, the smell of lasagna hits me first before I step foot in the kitchen at the back of our house. The space is my mother’s domain. It’s not big by any means—none of the three-bedroom Cape Cod-style house is—but it’s home.
I find Mom putzing around, tossing a salad, a pot of water boiling on the stove.
“Smells great.” I peck her cheek, wiping away the small traces of flour transferring to my lips.
“Are you home for dinner? Juliet’s supposed to pop by with Gregor.”
As enticing as that sounds, I have groveling to do. And for once, it’s not with my sister.
Juliet, older than me by four years, moved out just a little over a year ago, giving Lennon her own room for the first time at our house. She’s always had one at Megan’s house, but since we never made it a big deal she cohabited with her dear old dad, neither did she. And even with her own room, she ends up in my bed a lot of nights. A lot of nights too many. However, college classes, hockey practices, and an energetic five-year-old are the epitome of exhaustion. Besides, for four years, I was used to having her in the room with me. It was an adjustment for both of us. Hell, still is for her.
“Maybe. I kinda need to do something. What time are they coming?”
With the back of her hand, Mom brushes a wayward grayish strand of hair off her face. She’s accepted the gray, refusing to color her hair. She tries to blame me for going gray early—making her a grandmother at a young age—but that’s such a lie. It wouldn’t have been her choice for me to become a teen dad, making her a grandmother in her late forties, but she’s been supportive from day one. Dad too, in his way.
