“Is your sister talking about it? Do you think she needs to talk to her therapist more?” There’s an edge of panic in his voice.
“Lavender isn’t talking about it,” I reassure him. “And she seems like she’s handling school fine.”
“Then what’s going on? Is it Kody-related? Does it have to do with their relationship? Do I need to talk to him?”
I hold up a hand. “No, Dad. You don’t need to talk to Kody. It’s not about that. Just forget about it.”
“You’re a good kid, Mav. Impulsive, but good.”
I want to stab myself in the eye. I nod again, my mouth dry, my stomach unsettled. I swallow down the bile and force a smile. “I should hit the books. I’ve got an exam to study for.”
“Yeah. Of course.” My dad’s expression is pinched. He looks like he wants to say more but isn’t sure what or how. “If you ever need to talk, about anything, all you have to do is call. Your mother and I are always going to be here for you, no matter what.”
“I know, Dad.” Except I’m not sure he would say that if he could see inside my head.
“Tell River to call when he gets a chance. Your mom thinks he’s dodging her messages because it takes him more than twenty minutes to respond.” Dad shakes his head.
“I’ll try, but I haven’t seen much of him lately.” I hop out of the cab and grab my backpack from the back, waving as he pulls away from the curb.
I drop my bag in the front foyer, grab an Uber and head to the freshman party, needing something to distract me. The driver takes Hackett Street, which seems to be a shortcut to a lot of places. The black BMW from this morning is still parked in her driveway. It’s closing in on ten. I guess if the car is still there in the morning, I know what the real deal is.
I can hear the thump of bass as soon as we turn onto the car-lined street. It’s mostly student housing and apartments around here.
I saunter up the driveway, not really sure what the hell I’m doing here. The house is small and run-down, a true student home—unlike the one I live in with my siblings. Inside, there’s a keg in the middle of the living room, along with a handful of rookie players and some freshman girls who are questionable jailbait. The whole scene is one I’ve avoided for the most part since my freshman year. There’s a reason all the parties were atmy house, where I could control who came and went, and I could disappear when I didn’t feel like dealing with drunk idiots anymore. I spent most of the time making sure people didn’t get so hammered they could no longer make good decisions.
And now here I am, in the middle of everyone’s bad decision-making. I’ve only been here for two minutes, and I’m already regretting it.
“Waters! You showed, man! Guys! The legend is heeeeeeeeeere!” shouts Deever, the freshman throwing the party.
And suddenly I have a lot of attention. One of the guys hands me a shot. And as the group around me grows, more drinks come my way. I accept them, wanting to drown out everything that’s happening in my head. I expect the alcohol to take the edge off, but it seems to be doing the opposite.
After a little while, I can’t stay focused on the conversation. Especially since a group of freshmen, most of themnoton the hockey team, want to talk to me about my dad and his awesome career, and how cool it is that I’m carrying on tradition and going to the NHL, and blah fucking blah.
It gets worse when a few girls slide into the group, and one links her arm with mine and asks me if I came alone.
“I’m actually seeing someone,” I lie, for reasons that don’t make a lot of sense, other than the fact that being here feels wrong on a lot of levels, even if Clover lied about her ex. And right now, he’s in her house. Maybe in her bed. Maybe he’s been there all day.
“Oh.” She makes a pouty face. “Are you like, exclusive?”
“Sure.” If byexclusiveshe means I exclusively whack off in the shower to images of my professor, then yes. We’re absolutely exclusive.
“But she’s not here?”
“No.” I scrub a hand over my face. “I gotta get out of here.” I push my way out of the group, shaking off the girl.
I realize I’m pretty damn drunk when the floor feels like it’s moving under my feet. I have to use the wall to keep me from falling over. I need water. And maybe to puke.
I stumble my way through the living room and out the front door. I trip down the front steps and around the side of the house and relieve myself in a bush. I call an Uber, my stomach twisting uncomfortably.
When the Uber arrives, I cram myself into the back seat. As I’m sitting there, I pull up the introductory email for Clover’s class. Her cell number is at the bottom. A lot of professors do that—give a contact number outside of the university.
I compose and send a single message:
Maverick: Why did you lie?
17
THE BREAKING POINT
