Page 62 of The Rebel (Looking to Score 1)
Looking down at the beer in my hands, I notice it’s gone warm. While he’s been rambling on about something, I’ve been sitting here lost in thought.
I shake my head. “Nah, I’m good.”
He chuckles darkly. “You’re not good. I don’t know what you are, but whatever it is, it’s the opposite of good.” He grabs himself another beer and then takes a spot on the couch across from me.
When I invited him over, I was hoping to get out of my head a little bit—enjoy a casual night and a couple of beers with a friend. But so far, the mission is a failure. I can’t seem to stop obsessing over this thing with Eden.
Our date the other night was transformative. For me, anyway. But I still don’t know where we stand. How she really feels about me. When we’re together, things are easy. Awesome. But when I step back and think about our future . . . that’s where things get murky.
We’re on two different playing fields, and I’m really struggling with how to rectify that, if it’s even possible.
“You gonna tell me what’s going on, or what?” Madden says, his tone hinting at his annoyance.
I give him a long look, trying to figure out what he’s wanting me to tell him. “About?”
He rolls his eyes. “What the hell you’re so hung up on.”
I guess I’ve been more obvious than I thought, with all the shit storming through my head. “It’s nothing.”
He chuckles darkly. “Fine. Be an asshole.”
This pulls a surly laugh out of me. “All right. I’ll talk. But let’s order some food.”
Madden agrees and pulls out his phone. We decide on Vietnamese and place an order for delivery, and then he’s back to looking at me with that same expectant expression.
“It’s Eden.”
His brows jump. “Yeah?”
I nod. “I told you I knew her in college. And yeah, we have a history.”
He snaps his fingers. “I knew it was more than just an acquaintance thing.”
Bastard. I remember that day in the gym when he pressed me for details.
“And we’ve started seeing each other again,” I say slowly, “outside of work.”
He takes another sip of his beer and waits for me to continue. “So, what’s the story?”
“I honestly don’t know. Things are casual, I think. I know she’s serious about her career.”
He nods. “Isn’t her family rich? Like billionaire rich?”
I shrug and lean back on the couch. “I don’t know. I assume so. I mean, they own a freaking NHL team and all.” I really don’t know the extent of the Wynn’s family fortune, nor do I need to. Their money doesn’t concern me. “They’re wealthy, yeah. Why does that matter?”
Madden meets my gaze. I mentally prepare myself for him to point out how someone like Eden Wynn would never go for a guy like me, and my grip tightens around my beer.
Instead, Madden only shrugs. “That’s cool, but you’re right, I guess it doesn’t matter. If you’ve got a connection, then go for it.”
He takes another leisurely swig of his drink while his words bounce around inside my head like a pinball.
Like it’s so easy. Like Eden and me being together is the simplest thing in the world.
Nothing about my life has been easy, so I have zero expectations that it will start now. Still, there’s something that lingers deep in my chest . . . a flicker of hope that can’t be extinguished.
• • •
“Mom?” I call out as I crack open her unlocked door.
“In here,” she calls from somewhere deeper inside the apartment.
I balance two bags of groceries in my arms and let myself inside. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve seen her, and the guilt was starting to wear at me. I didn’t particularly want to come over here today, but the desire to be a good son was eating away at me, and so here I am . . . son of the year.
When I find Mom, she’s in the kitchen, coloring in a notebook.
“Hey,” I say, setting the bags of groceries down on the counter. “Brought you some bananas. Soup. That bread you like. Just some basics.”
“Thanks, baby.” She looks up at me and smiles.
Mom looks good—there are no dark circles under her eyes, and she’s curled her hair. All good signs that she’s taking care of herself.
“What’s that?” I ask, confused as I watch her select a yellow-colored pencil from the table.
“It’s an adult coloring book.” She smiles, and my eyebrows must dart up, because then she laughs. “It was a gift from my addiction counselor.”
“Oh.” I shove my hands in my pockets.
“Come on. I’ll share.” She pats the seat next to her.
With a sigh, I join her at the kitchen table. From this vantage point, I can see what the image is she’s coloring. It’s a farm scene—complete with hills and a barn in the background, and a bunch of baby animals in the foreground. She hands me a pencil that’s somewhere between gray and brown.
