She doesn’t believe me in the least, but she doesn’t push. “Okay.”
“Listen, I gotta go. I’m meeting my roommate for dinner.”
“Oh? How is that going? Do you like her?”
I pause. “I do. But that reminds me, are you paying for the rent?”
She hesitates, and I know she is. “I am.”
“Mom.”
“What? I want to help you through school, Angie. We have the means, I’ve worked my ass off, and we love you. We want things to be easier for you.”
I swallow, the emotion almost too much. I could honestly live by myself, and she’d support me. I just feel that’s so unfair, though. How can I ask that of her if I won’t even visit her? Ugh, I’m such a poor excuse for a daughter. “I know, but I feel bad. I’m the one who chose to come to South Carolina and then move out of the dorm.”
“Yes, for your mental health and to help people, which is awesome! We fully support that.”
I love my mom. “Thanks, Mom.”
“Of course, now that you know, I don’t have to deal with Grandma and Venmo.”
I grin. “She can’t be that bad.”
“The worst, really. She’s such a pain. We want to have a huge family thing once the season is over. We can celebrate you graduating too since you don’t want to walk.”
The anxiety of that event freaks me out. My whole family? Seeing me? I need to work out more. Maybe skip some meals. “Yeah, maybe.”
“Claire will have had the new baby by then, and they all want to come up here. You haven’t seen the kids in forever.”
I haven’t, and I miss them. “Yeah. I can try to make it work. Can you get me the dates?”
“Absolutely,” she says, so damn happy. If I’m honest, hearing her voice and talking to her is making me feel so much better. “Can you call me tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” I say more as a promise than a statement.
“Call your dad too. He misses you.”
Yeah, no. “Okay.”
She hesitates. I don’t think she wants to let me off the phone. “I love you.”
“I love you.”
Once I hang up, I look down at my lap and exhale. The fabric of my scrubs is tight against my thighs, and I have a little bit of a belly. My breasts are huge from the weight gain, I’m big all over, and I know I look disgusting. How pathetic is it that I won’t see my parents because I’m overweight? They love me. I know they do. They wouldn’t care; they’d be supportive. I know this, but I’m just so embarrassed. In all reality, it doesn’t matter how anyone else feels if I don’t feel good about myself. Until I fix that, no amount of reassurance will help me.
I need to remember who the fuck I am and embrace her.
Or I’ll forever be unhappy.
Chapter Eight
Angie
* * *
After parking at my favorite pub, I head inside and go up to the bar. It’s a busy Thursday night. The place is packed since they have amazing drink specials, and of course, the food is awesome. I sit down and tuck my purse in between the stool and foot rail. I feel the guy beside me look me up and down before looking back at his drink. Don’t worry, buddy. You aren’t my type either. I put my phone down and reach for the menu to get an idea of what I want.
Once I know, I look around the bar for no reason at all but to be nosy and take in my surroundings. There are a lot of men in here and no women at the bar. There must be a game on, because everyone’s focus is on the big TVs above us. I glance up to see the Nashville Assassins are playing the Rangers. I smile at the little reminder of home.
Sometimes, I miss home. Yeah, it’s where all kinds of crap happened, but I miss it. I miss my friends; I don’t talk to any of them anymore. I miss my family. I miss the Assassins family. I miss Audrey Jane’s cupcakes and the incredible Hattie B’s. Man, I could go for some authentic Nashville Hot Chicken right about now. I miss the Bellevue campus. But I do enjoy it here. I love that there is a beach, and I love that no one knows me here. I just wish I had some friends. Or that London wasn’t attached to a fucking idiot.
The bartender comes over, and I order a vodka and Sprite Zero before ordering my fried pickles. I lean back in my stool, watching the TV. Around me, everyone is on their phones, and I’m thankful that I deleted my social media. It’s nice not to be concerned with what everyone is posting or what they’re doing. I would obsess over keeping up with my friends. Oh, someone got married? I would feel like I needed to be in a relationship. Since my dating history is a shitshow of fun, I always jumped into relationships with people I didn’t need to be involved with. Just to keep up with the Joneses. I felt like I had to be something I wasn’t, and now that I don’t have that pressure, I can breathe.
When my drink comes, I sit back, sipping on it as I watch the Assassins fight for the puck. I wish my uncle were on the ice, but it’s fun to watch people I know. Particularly to see Posey Hoenes behind the bench. She is so vocal and loud. The guys all respect her, and I applaud the woman she has become. I can’t believe she’s a mom and married, but man, I’m so proud of her. When her face comes across the TV, though, the announcer mentions Evan, and it bothers the fuck out of me.
Posey Adler Hoenes, first female NHL special teams coach and elder sister to Evan Adler, who just quit the NHL to focus on his mental health. Those Adlers are pretty legendary. When asked about her brother, she is supportive and loving. Like almost everyone has been.
I roll my eyes. So frustrating. I realize it’s still raw and new, but come on, let it go. Let everyone live, for fuck’s sake. They stay on her face for another second, and I realize how much Owen and Evan look like Posey. I always thought Posey was the spitting image of Elli, her mom, but her eyes and her jaw remind me of Owen. Her nose is Evan’s. Crazy. Carbon copies of their parents. I should text Evan, check in on him. Ask him about Owen. I have no doubts they talk daily—hell, maybe even hourly.
I tear my eyes from the TV to down the rest of my drink while once more looking around my surroundings.
Then I see him.
I don’t know if thinking of the Adlers willed him into existence, but Owen Adler is across the bar from me. He wears a fitted yellow tee and a red hat that is low on his forehead. He has a bit of hair growing in on his jaw, and wow, he looks so much like his dad. Those blazing blue eyes are lethal, and when they meet mine, I swear, my clothes and panties melt off.
His eyes burn into mine, and I refuse to look away. His lip turns up at the side, but neither of us waves or acknowledges the other. We just stare at each other. Like two creeps. Thankfully, our intense staring game is broken when the bartender comes over with my pickles and asks if I want another vodka. I agree, and when he moves, Owen is gone. I look to the right and don’t see him, but as I turn my head to the left, he is there. All six-plus feet of him, towering over me. He points to the stool beside me.
“Is this seat taken?”
I swallow hard. “Nope.”
He sits down, one leg coming up on the rail as he uses the other to turn himself to face the bar. He already has a bottle of water, and he leans on the bar, watching the TV. He doesn’t say anything, so I don’t either. I reach for a pickle, eating it as I watch the TV too. When he reaches over and takes one, I side-eye him. But I don’t say anything, and neither does he.