Page 9 of Undone

My eyes downturn, lips pressing into a slight pout. “But—”

“Lillian,” he says sharply. He hasn’t used that tone with me once the entire two days of moving up here, but it works just the same. My mouth snaps shut, eyes casting down. “It’s nonnegotiable. Now is not the time to be selfish. I need to be able to keep an eye on you and your progress.”

The last sentence pulls me deeper into my own guilt, enough that I’m already nodding.

“Yes, sir.”

“And maybe . . . Carson can take you somewhere on a few Fridays. If that will make you happier.”

I nod, but the offer doesn’t help—or make me happier. Not that I would really know. My baseline these days seems to be numbness.

“Are you . . .” He sighs deeply, running a hand through his red-brown graying hair. There’s a strain of hesitancy across his face, before he blows out a deep breath that sounds like the last puff of smoke in a dying car. “Do you want to stay at the house? Just one more night.”

My chest aches.

It had taken us a very long time to find this place—the only rentable town house with enough space but also not too much space. And with the right layout with my window facing out to the back. The same way my bedroom always had been.

I look around at my new room, knowing everything I brought when we moved from North Carolina is now in this place, not in the sterile white walls of my dad’s rented house. I don’t want to go back there.

But then I think of the empty room next door and the boxes littering the kitchen and living room. I think of the quiet space—a record player but no records to play yet. No TV quietly playing SportsCenter downstairs. No footfalls or people coming in and out to clean or care for the place.

Loneliness.

Like a black storm cloud casting shadows over the excitement of change.

“Yeah. Maybe . . . maybe just for one more night. I can start staying here tomorrow.”

There’s something like relief on my dad’s face, though he tries to hide it. Still, it makes my heart turn over behind my ribs, that same desperate longing I know like the back of my hand rearing its ugly head.

I smother it down before it can smother me with regrets.

Chapter 3

Toren

“What the hell was that?”

I hear his voice before the door shuts—not a slam, though I’ve tensed like I’m preparing for one. Instead, as usual, Coach Harris is seemingly calm as he enters. Although here, in his house, he’s Nate Harris—not Coach.

Mrs. Harris greets him with a soft kiss and returns to the stove, but I don’t fail to notice the way she watches us warily from the corner of her eyes. Wary of me or her husband’s unusually upset tone, I’m never sure.

Sahara Harris—a mouthful of a name if you ask me—is always cheery and calm. And even if I didn’t say anything as she greeted me when I came stomping through her doorway, tossing my backpack into the corner by the door and settling into a seat at the kitchen table, she kept cooking, humming under her breath. All calm and tranquil while I seethed and stewed in my anger.

Anger at LaBlanc, for following me here. Anger at Harris, for bringing him here. Anger at myself for not being strong enough not to come back here, to this house.

After the night of the Frozen Four, Harris drove me to the airport the next morning, ready to be rid of me, I’m sure. But before I got out of the car, he offered me a spot on the team. I’d thought it was a joke, but he was serious.

It was all I thought about the entire plane ride back to Michigan, then in the car back to Mt. Hart. And by the time I was in my classes again, I’d made my decision. It was the better of two evils—play for LaBlanc again, or play for a team that might hate me, but a coach that might . . . care.

All that feels ridiculous now, knowing that I somehow walked in some giant circle, right back where I started with LaBlanc haunting the narrative I’ve tried to craft for myself. I took myself from the dirt beneath his loafers to being considered for three teams and counting. I did that—and he’s here to what? Fuck it all up for me again?

“I think I was pretty clear,” I say, mouth half full of greens from the salad Mrs. Harris asked me to wait to eat. “I quit.”

“Toren—”

“Don’t.” I toss my fork back in the bowl and slide back from the table, standing.

Instead of running away from my aggressive bull stature, Mrs. Harris dusts off her hands and throws herself into the ring.