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She was on her bed, hair splayed out across her pillow and her phone in her hand like she’d fallen asleep in the middle of using it. A twinge of jealousy momentarily coated my senses. Just the other day, she’d told me this ex-boyfriend of hers had hurt her, but maybe she’d decided she wanted to get back with him and was up texting until she fell asleep.
Or, maybe, she was talking to someone else. The guy from her cast who’d invited her out for drinks.
Maybe she was on a dating app, looking for a hookup.
Or, very possibly, I was losing my mind and needed to get a grip.
Even though I was exhausted from having to beonall night, I decided I needed to hit the bag for a while.
Tiptoeing into her room, I lifted the comforter over her and then forced myself to turn right the fuck around instead of tucking her hair behind her ear, dragging my finger over the apple of her cheek, or bending to kiss her mouth like I wanted to.
“Hey, Professor.”
I froze halfway to the door at her scratchy, sleep-filled voice. Every day, I was called professor, but Kennedy was the only one to give me goose bumps when she said it. Like she was deliberately, sensuously trailing her fingernails down my spine.
I was slow to face her, fearing I might not be able to leave.
And I was right.
Because her smile was drowsy, and I couldn’t deny her when she sat up and patted the mattress in front of her. “Come tell me how it was.”
She might as well have offered me a bone for how well I followed her direction. I sat on her bed, though I kept a foot of distance between us. “It was fine.”
“You’re like a middle schooler when their mom asks how their day was.” She rolled her eyes up to the ceiling and shrugged theatrically, dropping her voice when she droned, “Fine.”
“Was that supposed to be me?”
“No, this is you.Hey, guy, you look wicked hungry. You want a grinder? Or should I go to Dunkin’?”
I refused to laugh at her ridiculous Boston accent. “First of all, it’s Dunks, not Dunkin’, and second, I don’t sound like that.”
“Sometimes.”
“Nah. I lost my accent a long time ago.”
“Not when you’re angry or upset. Or when you say ‘lobster.’” Of course, she said lobster like lobstaaah.
“I never say ‘lobster.’ I never have the occasion to.”
She nodded, all full of herself. “Uh-huh. Last month, you picked Finn up and said he was like a sack of lobsters. Do lobsters even come in sacks?”
I narrowed my brow in thought because it wasn’t like I said that all the time. And I couldn’t believe she would remember such a tiny detail. “Lobsters are transported in crates, not sacks.”
This small piece of knowledge seemed to delight Kennedy, her eyes bright and awake now. She shifted closer to me. “How do you know?”
“My dad was a fisherman.”
“Really?”
I nodded. “Family business.”
“How come you didn’t go into it?”
“My dad died when I was ten, and my brothers and I weren’t interested in it without him, so…” I slanted my gaze to the wall as I shrugged. I’d had a lot of years to deal with my grief, and while it still hurt, it was more like a tender bruise as opposed to the open wound I’d had when I was younger. “My uncle took it over completely. A couple of my cousins are still doing it.”
“I’m sorry about your father,” she said, scooting even closer to me so her thigh was right up against mine. “Mine died when I was eight.” Surprised, I met Kennedy’s eyes, and she offered me a tiny, sad smile. “It’s like our own little club.”
I gave in to a rough laugh. “The dead dads club.” When her fingers curled around mine, squeezing, I squeezed back. “Mine was a stroke. What was yours?”
