“Football isn’t the only thing that’s held me together. And it’s not the only thing I love.” Noah’s eyes went wide, but I kissed him before he could say anything. “Now leave before I tie you to my fucking bed.”
He released a shaky laugh and rolled away. Not fast enough to hide the damp sheen to his eyes or the way he’d bit the inside of his lip. I rolled onto my side, naked and cold but not covering up, and watched as he washed up quickly and dressed again. It didn’t take more than five minutes for him to finish packing, which sucked. I’d been hoping to draw it out. Watch him longer. Come up with a miracle that would result in me having a normal job and a normal life where I could have a relationship with the man who’d gotten past my bullshit and found a place in my heart.
When his backpack was hanging over one shoulder and his suitcase was shut, Noah looked at me again.
“Don’t fire Joe.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Seriously, Gavin. He’s an asshole, but he cares about you. And he’s loyal to you. I don’t know if you’d find someone else like him. And . . . until you step up and start taking on your own finances and responsibilities, you need him.”
“I’ll take that under consideration.”
“I hope you do.”
He opened the door, paused long enough for a knot to work into my throat and my chest to constrict, and then walked out. I stared at that spot until the security system beeped, indicating that he’d armed the code and left the house.
The sense of loss hit me in the gut. It was staggering.
I told myself to get up. To work the grief and loneliness out of my system the way I’d done with anger in the past. Work him out of my system. But I didn’t.
Other than forcing myself to order something to eat, I stayed in my room for the next few weeks.
***
Noah
Christmas came with little fanfare, mostly because I’d blanked out the holidays in my frantic job search. My father, newly employed at Under Armour, spent it in the Dominican Republic with Jasmine’s parents. They got a kick out of texting us photos taken with their selfie stick. I had no idea why they’d taken my father, other than them feeling sorry for the perma bachelor who’d already stopping seeing the woman he’d been dating a few weeks ago, and them all having been friends as long as I’d known Jasmine. They were how we’d even met.
I spent Christmas morning with a cup of coffee and my laptop open on the job section of Craigslist in one tab, and Gavin’s Instagram in another. He hadn’t updated in days. Twenty-eight of them to be exact. Because I’d been the one to post a picture of Mel and Joe sitting on his couch, deep into the game, on Thanksgiving.
I’d also not heard from him since the day I’d left his house. The day when I’d cried the entire cab ride home with my face buried in my coat. The cabdriver had wordlessly handed me some tissue. Somehow, that single gesture was enough to break me every time I thought of it.
Clearing the thought away, or at least trying to, I closed my laptop and stared at the television. I hated parades, but always felt obligated to watch them. I kept it on mute because I hated the commentators, even though it was Anderson Cooper, and sat in the thick silence until someone rang the buzzer.
For one ridiculous moment I wondered if it was Gavin. But that made no sense. He was still under house arrest, and was likely also sitting in his house all alone.
The person rang the buzzer four more times in quick succession before leaning on the damn thing. I rolled my eyes. Jasmine.
I buzzed her up without asking who it was, unlocked the front door, and returned to my old-man position on the recliner. I wasn’t prepared for her to walk in with Marcus Hendricks. He was wearing jeans, Timberlands, and a black pullover hoodie beneath a North Face jacket, like any other guy in New York, but . . . he happened to be famous. And ridiculously gorgeous. Somehow I’d forgotten how hot all of Gavin’s friends were. Now, I gaped at him while wrapped in my afghan.
“What is happening?”
“Jasmine forced me to come here.”
Jasmine flipped the locks on the front door and pushed his shoulder. “Don’t be rude. You said you wanted to spend Christmas with me.”
“Yeah. Like with your parents.” Marcus frowned at me. “Bro Code says I can’t break bread with little homie over here. Sorry.”
I rolled my eyes. “Good. I don’t have any bread anyway.”
Marcus shot Jasmine a withering stare. “Why did you bring me here?”
“To starve you. Chill the fuck out and sit your overgrown ass down. I told you my parents are in DR.”
Marcus heaved a great, tragic sigh and flopped down on the loveseat. It was dwarfed by him, and I wondered distantly if it would collapse under his muscular body. The last thing I needed in life was the running back of the Barons getting injured because of my billion-year-old furniture.
“I really don’t have any food,” I said, struggling to get out of the afghan I’d wrapped around myself like a burrito. “We could find somewhere to order from. There’s usually a couple of places open.”
“We’ll be fine. I’m taking you both to my titi’s house for dinner. This is just a pit stop because I can’t handle being around her screaming children for the entire day.” Jasmine unzipped her coat and plopped down next to Marcus. “How’re you doing?”
“Fine. Job hunting.” I exed out the tab with Gavin’s Instagram. “What did you guys do all morning?”
“Had break—”
“Had sex,” Jasmine interrupted. “And listened to his parents rampage through the phone that he blew off going back to Virginia just to hang out with some random girl.”
Marcus gave her a mortified stare. “Damn, you don’t keep shit discreet.”
“Not with the bestie. Sorry.” Jasmine batted her eyelashes at him before crossing one legging-clad knee over the other.
“I see.” I looked from her to Marcus, and wondered when they’d gone from randomly dating to seeming so couplelike. Apparently, I’d missed a lot while wallowing in misery. “How’s Simeon?”
“He’s with Gavin,” Marcus said. “And don’t ask me shit about Gav because I’m not telling.”
Jasmine gave him another annoyed look. I sat up, frowning.
“Am I missing something here? Why are you acting like I wronged him?”
“Well,” Marcus said in an overly sarcastic drawl. “Since you dumped his ass—”
“Dumped him?” I demanded.
“—he’s quit being Gavin Brawley and has become Bridget Jones after a breakup.”
It caught me so far off guard I didn’t even think to point out his tendency to reference romantic comedies.
“What the fuck? I didn’t dump him. We were never together!” When both Jasmine and Marcus gave me dull stares, I shook my head. “You know what I mean. And me leaving was a mutual decision. He agreed that it wasn’t going to work. Me staying in his house would have just made it harder on both of us come the end of his house arrest.”