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“All right. What’s going on?” she demands.
I shrug. “Nothing.”
“You’re lying. Did something happen at practice this morning? Trouble in one of your classes?”
“No, none of that.”
“Then what?”
Another shrug. “Look, if it’s all the same, I’d rather not talk about it.”
There’s a beat.
“Okay, whatever you want.” She hops off the couch. “Let me check on the lasagna.”
I get up too. “No, you know what? I should go.”
She blinks in surprise. “What?”
I’m already pulling my jacket off the hook in the hall. “I’m sorry, G. I’m really not feeling it.”
Concern fills her eyes. “Luke.”
“Don’t call me that,” I snap.
My tone is so harsh she actually flinches, which brings a twinge of remorse.
“Sorry,” I mutter, avoiding her worried gaze. “Just…don’t call me that.”
“It’s your name,” she says softly.
“Yeah, well, fuck that. I told you before not to use it.”
“Okay,” she says in a careful tone. “Do you want to explain why?”
Frustration claws its way up my throat. “Now I owe you explanations?”
Gigi frowns at me. “You don’t have to be an asshole about it.”
“I’m sorry.” I rake both hands through my hair and avert my eyes. I can’t stand the way she’s peering at me right now. Trying to burrow her way into my mind. “I told you, I’m not feeling this tonight.”
“Then you shouldn’t have fucking come.” Now she’s angry. “You could have just sat in your own house and sulked and left me the hell out of it.”
I clench my teeth, my gaze returning to her.
“But you did come, so why don’t you take this opportunity to behave like an adult and tell me what’s wrong?”
There’s a part of me that wants to do that. Just sit back down and confess everything that’s weighing on me. But then I envision her face, her pity, and all the other questions she’ll inevitably have, and the words refuse to come out.
After a long beat, Gigi huffs out a breath.
“Forget it. Just go. Even if you wanted to stay and talk, now I’m not in the mood to hang out with you. So get out.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
RYDER
You silly, stupid man
GIGI’S NOT TALKING TO ME. AS IN, SHE’S STRAIGHT-UP IGNORING ME.
All right, that’s not entirely true. She did text to say she doesn’t feel like seeing me right now.
That was four days ago. I’ve felt like an ass ever since I left her dorm, but I’m not great at this shit. Talking. Apologizing. After my calls kept going to voicemail, I sent her three different apology texts. Each increasingly more frustrated, as evidenced by our third exchange on Sunday morning.
ME:
I don’t get it. I said I was sorry. I was in a bad mood that night. Didn’t realize I wasn’t allowed to be in one.
GISELE:
If you still think that’s why I’m mad, then you’re never going to get it.
ME:
Can I please just call you?
She’s typing. Then the three dots disappear, and her name appears on the screen.
As my pulse speeds up, I duck out of the living room, where my roommates and I were watching football, and into the kitchen.
Fuckin’ finally.
“Hey,” I say, a little too eagerly.
“Hi.”
My heart clenches at the sound of her voice. It’s crazy how much you can miss someone’s voice when you’re no longer hearing it every day.
I lean against the kitchen counter, letting out a breath.
“I don’t like that you’re ignoring me,” I say roughly.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t like getting yelled at.”
Regret fills my chest. “I know. I’m sorry. I was in a shitty mood and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”
There’s a long pause.
“Is that it?” she asks.
I blink. “Um. Yeah?”
She makes a frustrated noise. “We’re together now, right? Dating?”
“Yes…” I say warily.
“People talk to each other when they’re dating.”
“Aren’t we talking now?”
“You know what? Apology not accepted. I have to go.”
“Gigi—”
“No, I’m going to lunch with Mya and then for a run. And clearly you have nothing worthwhile to say, so…”
She ends the call without saying goodbye.
My jaw drops. I’m still staring at the screen wondering what the hell just happened, when Shane saunters in to grab a bottle of water.
I’m completely mystified. I apologized. What the hell else does she want from me?
“What?” He eyes me from the fridge.
“I pissed Gigi off and she won’t accept my apology.”
“Women, amirite?” he says, then wanders back to the living room.
I trail after him, grumbling irritably. “Seriously, like what the fuck?”
“What’s this now?” drawls Beckett.
“Gigi is mad at him,” supplies Shane.
“Am I not allowed to have a bad day?” I demand.
“Women, amirite?” Shane says, refocusing his attention on the Patriots game.
“Are you just going to say that to everything I say?” I ask him.
“Yes.” His gaze remains glued to the screen. “The Pats are playing and your problems don’t really interest me.”
Will chuckles from his perch on the couch.
Desperate for any insight, I turn toward him. “You’ve known her the longest. Can you help me out here?”
