“She’s pissed,” Logan remarks as he watches Hannah chatting with the cook behind the pick-up counter.
“She should be,” replies Dex. “Seriously, what kind of selfish douchetard dumps his duet partner right before a show?”
Logan snickers. “Douchetard? I’m totally stealing that phrase.”
“She’ll be fine,” Allie says confidently. “Hannah’s originals are awesome. She doesn’t need Cass.”
“No one needs Cass,” Dex agrees. “He’s like the human being equivalent of syphilis.”
As everyone laughs, I tune them out and focus my attention on Hannah. I can’t help but remember the first time I came to Della’s, with the sole purpose of persuading Hannah to tutor me. It was only a little more than a month ago, yet I feel like I’ve known her forever.
I don’t know what I was thinking taking that whole anti-girlfriend position. Because having a girlfriend? Fucking rocks. Seriously. I get to have sex whenever I want without having to work for it. I have someone to vent to after a shitty day or a devastating loss on the ice. I can make the worst jokes on the planet and chances are Hannah will laugh at them.
Oh, and I love being with her, plain and simple.
Hannah returns to our booth carrying our drink orders. Or rather, Allie and Dex’s drink orders. Logan and I asked for sodas, but what we get is water.
“Where’s my Dr. Pepper, Wellsy?” Logan whines.
She levels him with a stern look. “Do you know how much sugar is in a soft drink?”
“A perfectly acceptable amount and therefore I should drink it?” supplies Logan.
“Wrong. The answer is too damn much. You’re playing Michigan in an hour—you can’t get all hopped up on sugar before a game. You’ll get a five-minute energy boost and then crash halfway through the first period.”
Logan sighs. “G, why is your girl our nutritionist now?”
I pick up my water glass and take a sip of defeat. “Do you want to argue with her?”
Logan looks at Hannah, whose expression clearly conveys: you’ll get a soda over my dead body. Then he looks back at me. “No,” he says glumly.
34
Hannah
My phone meows just after midnight, but I’m not asleep. In fact, I’m not even in my PJ’s yet. The second I came home after work, I grabbed my guitar and got right back to work again. Now that Cass has thrown a selfish, vindictive wrench into my life, things like “sleep” and “relaxing” and “not panicking” don’t exist anymore. For the next month, I’m pretty much going to be a walking basket case, unless I magically find a way to juggle school, work, Garrett, and singing without having a nervous breakdown.
I put down the acoustic and check the screen. It’s Garrett.
Him: Can’t sleep. You up?
Me: Is this a booty call?
Him: No. Do u want it to be?
Me: No. I’m rehearsing. Totally stressed.
Him: All the more reason for this to be a booty call.
Me: Keep it in your pants, dude. Why can’t u sleep?
Him: Whole body hurts.
Sympathy flutters through my belly. Garrett had called earlier to say they’d lost the game, and apparently he’d taken some brutal hits tonight. Last time we talked, he was still icing his entire torso.
I’m too lazy to type, so I dial his number and he answers on the first ring.
His husky voice slides into my ear. “Hey.”
“Hey.” I lean back against my pillow. “I’m sorry I can’t come over and kiss all your boo-boos, but I’m working on the song.”
“It’s okay. There’s only one boo-boo I want you to kiss, and you sound too distracted for that.” He pauses. “I’m talking about my dick, by the way.”
I choke down a laugh. “Yep. I got that. No need to clarify.”
“Did you decide which song you’re going to sing?”
“I think so. It’s the one I sang to you last month when we were studying. Do you remember it?”
“Yeah. It was sad.”
“Sad is good. Packs more of an emotional punch.” I hesitate. “I forgot to ask you earlier—was your dad at the game?”
A pause. “He never misses one.”
“Did he bring up Thanksgiving again?”
“No, thank fuck. He doesn’t even look at me when we lose, so I wasn’t expecting him to be chatty.” Garrett’s voice is thick with bitterness, and then I hear him clear his throat. “Put me on speakerphone. I want to hear you sing.”
My heart squeezes with emotion, but I try to hide the response by donning a casual tone. “You want me to sing you a lullaby? Aren’t you precious.”
He chuckles. “My chest feels likes it got hit by a truck. I need a distraction.”
“Fine.” I hit the speaker button and reach for my guitar. “Feel free to hang up if you get bored.”
“Baby, I could watch you watching paint dry, and I still wouldn’t be bored.”
Garrett Graham, my own personal sweet-talker.
I settle the acoustic on my lap and sing the song from the top. My door is closed, and although the walls in the dorm are paper-thin, I’m not worried about waking Allie. The first thing I did after Fiona told me about the duet was give Allie a pair of ear plugs and warn her that I’m going to be singing late into the night until the showcase.
Weirdly enough, I’m not angry anymore. I’m relieved. Cass had turned our duet into the kind of flashy, jazz-hands performance that I despise, so as infuriating as it is to get dumped, I’ve decided I’m better off not having to sing with him.