Enjoy the cookies.

~ Emma

I read the letter six times, each time flipping it over, expecting more, expecting…I don’t know…a joke maybe? What the fuck? This…this is the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for her? A complete stranger?

After my last read, I crumple the note and throw it on my desk, then grab my jacket and keys. I pace a few times, my hand twitching and wanting to hit something, my body craving adrenaline. By the time I step from my room, I must look like an amped up bull given the way Trent reacts to me.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” he asks, sitting up a little straighter on the sofa, squaring his legs as if he’s considering tackling me or holding me down.

“Nothing, just…just some shit I found out,” I say, not wanting to give him more.

“Owen? Your ma?” he asks, one eyebrow up. Trent hears me argue with my mom over not visiting enough, over making sure I’m following rules, driving safe—she and I argue over everything. She thinks I’m a fuck up and that I’m going to blow it now that I’ve climbed back this far. And Owen just calls to echo everything she says. I take a deep breath and remind myself to act rational.

“Sort of,” I say, simultaneously thinking of the number of lies I’ve told my friend in the last two days. I’ll never be able to keep up, so I stick with half answers that never satisfy, but at least aren’t totally wrong.

“Wanna go shoot some pool?” Trent asks. I don’t make eye contact and do my best to think if that would help. What I’d really like to do is find Pitch Black and go a few rounds with him, but Harley usually likes to schedule fights on Wednesdays, so I’m pretty sure the gym is closed.

I grip the back of my neck and stare at Trent’s feet for a beat before nodding. He doesn’t pause at all, just moves to the door, leaving the TV on in the room behind us. He slips on his shoes and the sweatshirt he left hanging on the back of a nearby stool. He locks up as I start down the walkway to the main road.

We live on the first floor of a two-story building. No need for elevators. No doorman greeting me as I come and go. No one doing amazingly nice things for me that would make me want to bake them cookies. I fume over the words in Emma’s note the entire way, sometimes talking to myself. Trent can sense I’m pissed, so he doesn’t question me. He’s used to seeing me get worked up over a bad game or a weekend with my mom and stepdad. Usually, I’m frustrated at having to defend myself, prove that I’ve grown up. The only sound he makes tonight is the occasional huff of breath in his hands to keep them warm. Winter is coming in Northern Illinois.

Majerle’s is warm, and I don’t waste any time ordering up two shots of Jack and commandeering a pool table in the back corner. This is a common scene for Trent and me—honestly, this is what we do for dinner most nights during the off-season. Trent is easy going, and I like to look for trouble. He keeps me in line—usually—and Majerle’s accommodates us both nicely. I rack quickly and toss a stick to Trent. He grabs it in the air.

“I’ll break,” I say, positioning myself and bending forward to line up my stick without waiting to hear his answer.

“Do you have to be a bossy fuck, too?”

I lean forward with my hands on the edge of the table, my stick leaning against it too, between my palms. I’ve gotten myself so worked up that I’ve lost sight of reason—and being reasonable. I let my head sling forward more as I exhale, then tilt my head up to look at my friend leaning against the wall across from me.

“Sorry,” I sigh.

“You know you’re miserable when you get like this?” He picks up the white ball in front of me, tossing it in his hand a few times before motioning for me to step to the side.

“I know,” I say, taking two steps back.

“Okay, as long as you know,” he says, leaving his eyes on mine for a few seconds, like he’s waiting to see if I’ll explode some more or actually calm the fuck down this time. I hold up a thumb and nod, mouthing I’m good.

“You wanna tell me what this is all about?” he says, leaning forward and lining up his break. He slides his stick twice before sending balls in all directions on the table, sinking both a stripe and a solid. He works his second shot, sinking a solid again. “You’re stripes.”

Our waitress drops off two shots, and I take mine fast, setting the glass back on her tray before she’s more than a step away. I hold up my fingers for two more, and Trent tells her to make it only one.

“Pussy,” I call him.