“Thinking about something other than hockey once in a while wouldn’t hurt.” Mark’s voice brings me hurtling back to reality.
I glance at him. “Oh, that’s just my roommate.”
“I see.” He gives me an amused look because I was drooling, and we both know it. “All I’m saying is, it’s important to have some work-life balance.”
It isn’t that I disagree with him. It’s that I have no idea how to do that.
CHAPTER 17
AGGRAVATINGLY PERFECT
SERAPHINA
Overtime is busier than usual, and empty tables are in scarce supply when Chloe and I arrive in the middle of the dinner rush. There are a few seats scattered on the opposite end of the bar, but we spot a bunch of obnoxious-looking frat boys nearby and decide to steer clear. Abby would’ve dragged me straight over and insisted we sit near, if not with them.
Truthfully, I’m thrilled to be out with someone who’s not Abby. Chloe and I have been able to carry on real conversations about meaningful things beyond bars and boys. Music, current events, activities to do around town. I still like fun, frivolous things too, but sometimes it’s nice to discuss topics of actual substance instead of debating which nightclub has the best VIP section.
A little company is exactly what I needed today, especially because Tyler is ignoring me. Okay, maybe that’s a little dramatic. I texted him a few hours ago—six, but who’s counting?—and he never wrote me back. That wouldn’t be as concerning if not for the fact I know he saw it. I know it sounds needy, maybe verging on insane, but this is the longest he’s ever left me on read without replying.
Is he getting tired of all our messages back and forth? Has the appeal of our twenty-one （now twenty-six and counting） questions with me worn off? I know I’m overthinking, but it’s impossible not to with a legitimately overactive brain.
Finally, Chloe and I find a small table near the pool tables at the back and snag it before anyone else can.
She slips off her navy jacket across from me. “Your poem today was amazing, Sera.”
Heat laces my cheeks. “Thank you.”
All of my writing is personal to me, but the one she’s referring to is about my mom’s cancer and BRCA. Although the true meaning is shrouded in heavy amounts of symbolism, it’s the most naked thing I’ve ever put down on the page.
“I loved it. The part where you used the wind as a metaphor gave me chills.”
“Really?” Her validation eases some of the tightness I’ve been carrying in my shoulders. “Oh, thank god. I was worried it wouldn’t make sense.”
“No, it totally did. How was it sharing your work? Was it terrifying?”
Surprising even myself, I voluntarily offered up some of my writing to workshop in class today. Everyone will have to do it at least twice this semester, so I figured I might as well get used to it. After the initial moments of terror passed, it wasn’t as bad as I expected. All of my classmates were nice, and I got some useful feedback.
“I was a nervous wreck,” I confess. “But I’m really glad I did it. I’m surprised how much I’ve been loving class so far.”
“Me too. Though I’m not looking forward to next week. The syllabus says we’re studying love poems in honor of Valentine’s Day.” Chloe makes a face. “Might as well study fairy tales.”
“You don’t believe in love?”
She scoffs. “About as much as I believe in the Easter Bunny. I mean, it’s a nice concept. I’m sure it’s out there for other people. For me? No. I’ve abandoned that idea. Love, dating, all of it. Plus, between work and school, I don’t have time to date. Like, at all.”
“That last part sounds like Tyler,” I muse. “I mean, my roommate.”
Worry glimmers in the back of my mind again. Why didn’t he write me back? If he’s blowing me off, I can live with that; I’d just like to know. Actually, that’s a lie. A big, fat lie. If he’s blowing me off, I’ll be crushed.
Our server takes our drink orders, and once she disappears, we agree to split a bunch of appetizers instead of getting entrees. It’s one of my favorite things to do at a restaurant. My bottomless pit of a brother is the first person who introduced me to it. Somehow, it feels vaguely naughty in a fun way—like you’re a little kid who’s bending the rules by not eating a “proper” meal.
We quickly settle on spinach and artichoke dip, buffalo chicken wings, pulled pork sliders, and chili-garlic shrimp, vowing to split the white chocolate brownie after if we still have any room left. It helps that we planned ahead; I got to preview the menu online ahead of time, thereby avoiding the usual overwhelm I run into when I’m put on the spot to make a decision.
Chloe sets down her Diet Coke, catching my eye. “Before I forget, there’s a writing contest through Revolve Magazine I meant to tell you about. There are a few different categories, and I think the grand prize is five thousand dollars or something. The winners will be compiled into their yearly anthology, which is a huge deal. Maxine’s been featured in it multiple times.”
“Anything Maxine has done is goals for sure. Are you going to enter?”
“No, silly. I meant you should.”
“Me? That’s nice of you to say, but I can’t see how I’d ever have a shot at something like that.” While I’ve always gotten by in school, I’ve never been an exemplary student. I don’t get straight-As, I don’t make the honor roll, and I definitely don’t win contests for my work. Those accolades are for organized, prepared types of people who have their acts together. In other words, not me.
She angles her head, leveling me with a look that says she doesn’t understand. “Why not? You said you’ve been writing for a while. It’s not like you’re new.”
“I’m new to writing properly,” I counter, biting into a piece of spicy shrimp.
“There’s no right or wrong with poetry. Remember what Maxine said in class today? ‘Good poetry makes you feel something.’ Your poem definitely made me feel something, and I’m not the only one.”
Cautious hope blossoms within me. Chloe seems to believe what she’s saying, but that doesn’t make it true. It’s possible she’s just being supportive.
“Thanks, Chloe. I’ll give it some thought.” Can’t see myself actually going through with entering, but it’s nice of her to think of me.
We plow through our food in short order, making it to the famed white chocolate brownie topped with vanilla ice cream, whipped cream, and chocolate sauce. It’s ridiculously over the top and decadent and I inhale my half with zero regrets.
When the server brings our bill, I grab the black leather folio and stick my credit card inside. “I got it.”
“What?” she protests. “No, you don’t have to do that.”
“You picked me up, so I’ll pay. Don’t worry about it.” Based on some of our conversations, I’ve gathered that finances are tight for her, which is why she works full-time while juggling school.
She opens her mouth like she’s going to argue, then closes it again. “Okay, but only if you’re sure. Thank you.” Her gaze lands off in the distance over my shoulder. “Actually, I need to hit the washroom before we go. Be right back.”