The Risk (Briar U #2)(9)

“How would I know? Do you think I studied the runoff situation before I moved in?” He can’t see me rolling my eyes, but I hope he can hear it in my voice.

“Tell me where the moisture is coming from.”

“I told you, it’s mostly around the sliding door.” I walk the perimeter of the living room, which takes about, oh, three seconds. The only wet spot is near the door.

“All right. Well, that’s a good sign. Means it’s probably not the pipes. But if it’s storm-water runoff, there could be several culprits for that. Is the driveway paved?”

“Yeah.”

“Your landlords might need to consider drainage options. Give them a call tomorrow and tell them to investigate.”

“I will.”

“I mean it.”

“I said I will.” I know he’s trying to be helpful, but why does he have to use that tone with me? Everything with Chad Jensen is a command, not a suggestion.

He’s not a bad man, I know that. He’s simply overprotective, and once upon a time he might’ve had reason to be. But I’ve been living on my own for three years. I can take care of myself.

“And you’ll be at the semifinals on Saturday night?” Dad asks briskly.

“I can’t,” I say, and I’m genuinely regretful about missing such a vital game. But I made these plans ages ago. “I’m visiting Tansy, remember?” Tansy is my favorite cousin, the daughter of my dad’s older sister, Sheryl.

“That’s this weekend?”

“Yup.”

“All right, then. Say hello for me. Tell her I look forward to seeing her and Noah for Easter.”

“Will do.”

“Are you spending the night?” There’s an edge to the question.

“Two nights, actually. I’m going up to Boston tomorrow, and heading back Sunday.”

“Don’t do—” He halts.

“Don’t do what?” This time, it’s my tone taking on that sharp edge.

“Don’t do anything reckless. Don’t drink too much. Be safe.”

I appreciate that he doesn’t say, “Don’t drink at all,” but that’s probably because he knows he can’t stop me. Once I turned eighteen, he couldn’t force me to abide by his curfew or his rules anymore. And once I turned twenty-one, he couldn’t stop me from having a drink or two.

“I’ll be safe,” I promise, because that’s the one assurance I can give with confidence.

“Bren,” he says. Then stops again.

I feel like most conversations with my father go like this. Start and stop. Words we want to say, and words we don’t say. It’s so hard to connect with him.

“Dad, can we hang up now? I want to take a hot shower and get ready for bed. I have to wake up early tomorrow.”

“All right. Let me know how the interview goes.” He pauses. When he speaks again, it’s to offer some rare encouragement. “You got this.”

“Thank you. Night, Dad.”

“Night, Brenna.”

I hang up and do exactly what I told him—take a scalding-hot shower, because the twenty-minute walk in the rain chilled me down to the bone. I’m redder than a lobster when I emerge from the cramped shower stall. My little bathroom doesn’t have a bathtub, which is a shame. Hot baths are the absolute best.

I don’t like sleeping with wet hair, so I do a quick blow-dry and then rummage around in my dresser in search of my warmest PJs. I settle on plaid pants and a thin long-sleeve tee with the Briar University logo on it. Basements tend to be cold as a rule, and my apartment is no exception. I’m surprised I haven’t come down with pneumonia in the seven or so months I’ve lived here.

As I get under the covers, I pop my phone out of its charger and find a missed call from Summer. I have a feeling she’ll call again if I don’t respond, probably five seconds after I fall asleep, so I preemptively ring her back before she can ruin my good night’s sleep.

“Are you mad at me?” is how she greets me.

“No.” I curl up on my side, the phone balanced on my shoulder.

“Even though I set you up with Jules and vouched for him?” Her voice ripples with guilt.

“I’m an adult, Summer. You didn’t force me to say yes.”

“I know. But I feel terrible. I can’t believe he didn’t show.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m not the least bit upset. If anything, I dodged a bullet.”

“Okay, good.” She sounds relieved. “I’ll find someone even better to hook you up with.”

“You most certainly will not,” I say cheerfully. “You’re officially relieved of your matchmaking duties—which you bestowed on yourself, by the way. Trust me, babes, I have zero issues when it comes to meeting men.”

“Yes, you’re good at meeting them. But dating them? You suck at that.”

I’m quick to protest. “Because I’m not looking to date anybody.”

“Why not? Having a boyfriend is awesome.”

Sure, maybe when your boyfriend is Colin Fitzgerald. Summer is dating one of the most decent guys I’ve ever met. Intelligent, kind, astute, not to mention hot as fuck.

“Are you and Fitzy still obsessed with each other?”