Call It What You Want(43)

I pull out my phone and text her.

MAEGAN: You OK?

Her response comes almost immediately.

SAM: Made it to the restroom

I’ll be here for a few minutes

MAEGAN: Do you want me to come there?

SAM: NO

“She’s fine,” I say.

“Fine?” he echoes.

“Well, she’s in the bathroom. She doesn’t want me to go there. So.”

“So.”

That’s all he says. He’s bouncing his stick against the slate walkway along the benches. A mother walks past us with a toddler in tow, and the little boy in a puffy snowsuit stares at us while gumming a cookie.

I take a breath. “Rob?”

His eyes don’t leave the stick. “Yeah.”

“I don’t …” I hesitate. “I’m really sorry about my friends.”

He glances over. “I’m used to it.”

That hurts more than it should. “I know … and I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize.” He’s quiet for a minute. “Is that why you’ve been eating lunch by yourself?”

“Yeah.” I blush. “You noticed?”

“I’m not exactly sitting at a crowded lunch table myself.” He pauses, his expression bemused. “Though somehow I’ve become friends with Owen Goettler.”

“I saw that,” I say without thinking.

“Did you?”

Somehow his voice has grown a little … deeper, maybe. Softer, but more intense. Or maybe it’s the cold and the dark and the uncertainty between us.

“Yeah,” I say, my voice barely more than a whisper. “I did.”

He studies me for the longest moment, then turns back to stare out at the night. “You could have joined us. You don’t have to eat by yourself.”

“I thought …” I swallow.

He looks back at me. “What did you think?”

“I thought maybe you were mad about what happened with Drew and Rachel.”

“Oh. No. I mean, not at you.” He takes a breath. “I thought maybe you were mad because I messed up your friendship.”

The music from the skating rink is so loud and raucous, but we’ve found this little cocoon of honesty, and I lean closer to him, not wanting to break it. “Is that why you aren’t talking to me?”

His eyes widen, but then he shakes his head and stares at the ground. “My whole life is complicated. I didn’t mean for that to rub off on you.” He inhales like he’s going to say more … but then he doesn’t.

I watch the stick spin between his hands, and for the first time I notice the tension in his forearms, the way his knee is bouncing.

I reach out and grasp the stick above his hand, gently forcing it still. “You can talk to me, Rob.”

He takes a long breath and lets it out, then turns his head to meet my gaze dead on. “Do you think I knew, Maegan?” His eyes narrow slightly. “Do you think I knew what my father was doing?”

I don’t know. That’s what I want to say. But that’s not an answer. I don’t know what exists between us, but I do know Rob isn’t a boy who entertains many gray areas in his life.

He’s not really asking about his father at all, I realize.

What he’s asking is, Do you trust me?

As soon as I figure that out, the answer is obvious. It’s been obvious since the day I realized he was waiting for me in the Wegmans parking lot instead of letting me walk in alone.

“I don’t think you knew.” As I say the words, I realize they’re true. All week, it hasn’t been my gut telling me to be wary of Rob Lachlan. It was everyone else’s gossip.

I slide my hand down half an inch until my fingers brush his. “I don’t think you helped him.” I pause. “I think you’re kind. And honest. And thoughtful.”

His dark eyes hold mine, and I wish I had a map of the emotion I see there.

Boots stop with a slide of grit on the walkway in front of us, and a girl’s soft voice says, “Rob?”

We both turn and look up at the same time. Callie Rococo is looking down at us. I don’t know Callie well, but we’ve had a few classes over the years. She’s on the varsity dance team, with the body to match. She’s what Samantha always calls “basic”: clear skin, bright blue eyes, impeccable makeup, completely forgettable face. Right now she’s wearing tight jeans tucked into Uggs, her blond hair spilling over the neck of a North Face down vest. A pair of ice skates hangs over her shoulder—definitely not rentals.

“Callie,” says Rob. He sounds thrown. “I … hey.”

“Hey,” she says softly. “I was skating with my sisters on the other side.” She gestures vaguely at the other side of the rink. “I thought that was you.”

After a beat, Rob stands. Damn his chivalry. “Yeah, it’s me.”

Her eyes flick to the lacrosse stick, and a tiny frown line appears between her brows. “You still play?”

“A little.”

Callie moves closer by a fraction. She touches his arm. “I’ve been thinking about you. How’ve you been?”

“I’m good.” If he’s surprised at the question, I can’t tell. His voice is even and gives nothing away. A shadow of the old Rob Lachlan sneaks into his voice. “I was running drills, but it got dark.”