Only When It's Us (Bergman Brothers #1)(49)

I clear my throat, unlocking my phone, and writing, Plans for Thanksgiving?

Her face tightens in profile before she schools her expression and turns toward me. “No. Just spending some downtime with my mom.”

Where do you guys live?

Willa drums her fingers on the desk and bites that bee-stung lip. As far as I know, I’ve never seen Willa Sutter lie, but I think I’m about to.

LA, she writes.

Ah, so she’s that bad of a liar. She couldn’t even look me in the eye when she did it.

LA’s a pretty big place, Sunshine. Where?

Slowly, her eyes slip up to mine. She clears her throat and swallows thickly. “Just a few minutes from campus, if you can believe it.”

My jaw ticks. Damn hypocritical firecracker of a woman. Busting my balls for not spilling my guts and entire life history, when she can’t even tell me her mother’s seriously ill.

Willa just shook my hand, reclaiming our twisted, backhanded frenemyship and lied by omission. It rankles me. I want her to trust me, to confide in me that instead of turkey and stuffing over a home gathering, she’s going to eat shitty Salisbury steak and Jell-O with her mom. That, rather than hang out on the couch and moan about full bellies, they’ll watch the Turkey Bowl from a narrow hospital bed until Willa watches her mom fall asleep.

I know how this goes because my dad’s mom was sick with cancer in the last few years of her life. I spent a lot of time with her since I was still too young for school when Dad set her up at home and took care of her. I snuggled on Nana’s lap, read her my favorite board books, and listened to her tell me about my dad when he was little. Every single lunch, Nana would sigh with delight that she wasn’t eating that hospital garbage anymore, but instead Elin’s delicious meals.

I’m about to do something, even if I don’t know exactly what, to shake Willa out of this double-standard, infuriating mindset of hers. Before I can do something uncharacteristically impulsive, Aiden’s presence—not for the first time—messes things up, and interrupts me.

Slamming his briefcase on the desk, Aiden turns to the class and smiles, a sinister glint shining through his nerd glasses. “Pop quiz!”





15





Willa





Playlist: “Fall,” Lisa Hannigan





I didn’t lie to Ryder, but I didn’t exactly tell him the truth either. It’s just that talking about your sick-with-cancer mom is about as uncomfortable a conversation topic as I can think of, and as I’ve admitted, squidgy dialogues aren’t my speed. So, I told him generally where we “live” for the time being and that I’d be spending Turkey Day with my mom. It wasn’t a lie. The goddamn oncology wing at RRMC is indeed not far from campus. On Thanksgiving, I’ll be snuggling up to Joy Sutter’s bony ass, trying not to dwell on thoughts like if this is the last one and just how thankful I am that I still have a mom to hug.

Since the unfinished soccer conversation, I’ve reasoned that Ryder’s secret relationship with the sport is tied with his hearing loss. Given that, I didn’t feel like rubbing my soccer life in his face. I didn’t mention that I’d be practicing plenty and mentally preparing myself for arguably the most important game of my career thus far, the NCAA Quarterfinals. I didn’t tell him I was sick-to-my-stomach nervous, that I feel like I’m carrying not only my own success and future on my shoulders but everyone else’s on my team. I didn’t tell him that I’m petrified, every time I leave for an away game, that I’ll come back motherless. I didn’t tell him that my fear is a tsunami building in its power, and I’m not sure I’ll stay intact when it finally crashes into my heart.

I didn’t tell him any of that. But I wanted to.

“Sutter!” Coach jogs over and drops her voice, giving me the look. The what-the-hell’s-gotten-into-you look. “Talk to me.”

I meet her eyes and swallow the lump in my throat, rolling my shoulders back and plastering what I hope is a determined smile on my face. “I’m sorry, Coach. Won’t happen again.”

She scowls. “My door’s open, Sutter, and frankly I can’t afford to have you not take advantage of that if it’s going to compromise your play—”

“It won’t.” I step closer, hands up. It’s a plea, a reassurance. “I promise, I’m fine.”

Rooney’s a few yards off, arms folded across her chest. When we meet eyes, she lifts two fingers, pointing them from her face to mine. I’m watching you.

Yeah, I’ve been avoiding Rooney, because she’s my ride or die, and when shit’s hard she makes me face and feel it, which I just don’t want to. The rest of the team, I like plenty. We have fun, but I’m not close with any of them, not a mile-wide, inch-deep friend. Rooney’s basically my person, and I know when I dump all this stuff on her it’s going to be extensive and ugly.

Coach claps my back, snapping me out of my thoughts.

“Come on, then!” Her voice rings in the practice field. “Another half hour of keep-away, then we’re done here. Tomorrow’s the big day. I want everyone well-slept, focused, and energized, got it?”

A resounding chorus of Yes, Coach echoes across the grass. Even though it’s deep into fall, it’s swampy in Florida. Sweat drips down my face, and I’m dying for a cool shower and a long night of sleep.