6. MADDIE

CHAPTER 6

MADDIE

I wish I could say I'm strong enough to not let anyone's crap sour my mood, but that would be a lie. I am as tender as a half-melted marshmallow.

After they leave, I table the hockey romance plans for another day and wallow in my misery by doing something that is also miserable: I start my homework.

This is one of my hacks for not breaking down. Between a heavy senior-year workload, my job as a subject tutor, the behind-the-scenes work for my debut book, and now all the strategizing for a parallel career as an indie author, I have no time to stop and think about how much of a loser I am.

And I have a massive L hovering over my head. No friends aside from Wyatt and Melinda—and I'm not even sure they count. No boyfriends outside of the ones on book pages. A relationship with my body that's more melodramatic than having a bad boy for a boyfriend.

I can only escape from myself through my journal, my laptop, or my work. And I exercise them a lot.

I catch up on my readings for an elective on Women's Fiction vs. Women's Studies: What's Real and What's Fiction. After that, I need to lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling in silence. The fresh reminder that it's hard to be a woman in real life, in books, and in the book industry—for more reasons than bleeding out of our vajayjays every month—knocks the wind out of me for a moment.

With some effort, I pick the pieces of myself back up and sit straight once more. The room is pitch dark, so I make my way around using the dim light from my laptop screen. I flip on the lamp and the fairy lights hanging around the edges of the ceiling. Now bathed in a cozy light, I hop back on my bed, which doubles as my work desk. Unfortunately, my desk is covered in too many piles of books to be used as intended. I didn't have enough money to buy a proper bookcase, and I don't dare install shelving on the walls because I'm hoping I can get part of my deposit back.

"Speaking of," I mumble to myself, opening my bank's app.

Ugh, it's time to do math.

So, subtract a mother who is still angry that I'm majoring in creative writing instead of something serviceable like law, like my older sister did. Then subtract the first cut of my book deal advance, which is already spent. But add the next cut, which I expect in March, when my book hits the shelves. Add the extra wage I'm earning now that I'm tutoring one super-hot hockey player. Weigh all that against how much the average rent is, plus the security deposit and the movers' cost, and…

"April," I say with a groan. I can't gather enough cash any earlier. Unless I max out my credit card, kick my credit score to the deepest abyss, and accumulate interest.

Could I handle another student? What if I start donating blood? Should I shave off my hair and sell it? It's my only objectively beautiful feature but, eh, it'll grow again.

Just as I'm laughing at myself, my phone starts buzzing against my comforter. I feel around until my hand bumps it to check who the caller is.

I would turn into a raisin if I could cringe any harder. After taking a few bracing breaths, I pick up the call. "Hi, Mom."

"Madeline Berkley, I know you read my text. Why haven't you responded?"

"I'm doing great. Thanks for asking. Living my best life as a soon-to-be published author, acing my classes, helping out my fellow students." My voice comes out in a deadpan.

But Mom knows this is as far as I'll rebel, so she just snorts in response. "Madeline, this is important. It's for your sister's wedding."

I stifle a sigh. All our conversations are about Megan's wedding. If not, they're about my many shortcomings.

"Sorry, I really needed to sort out my semester calendar first."

"It's been two weeks since I asked you when you'll be available for a dress fitting."

"And it's been two weeks since the semester started. See the correlation?" I mumble.

"Fortunately for you, you have a mother who cares," she says in her snippy voice that grates on my nerves and gives me headaches. "So I went ahead and ordered dress samples in your size. Unfortunately, they take more time to be ready than straight sizes."

I hate that term. It sort of implies that anything else is an abnormal size.

"Which means," she continues, "they'll only be available the weekend after next. That's the first weekend of February, so mark it in your calendar."

"Fine." Wow, okay. I guess I'm happy it takes so long to get XL or XXL sample dresses. It gives me time to prepare for this torture.

"Your sister will join us too. She wants to make sure you'll look perfect. Or, well, as perfect as you can."

Oh, great. Beautiful, favorite child Megan will be there too.

Okay, I'm not being fair. I would give a kidney for my sister and she'd do the same for me. It's not her fault that Mom often uses her as an example of how lacking I am. For example, Meg will point out that the sleeves of my blouse are weird, and Mom will say it's the shape of my arms that's weird.

This will be awful. I wish I had a solid excuse to get out of it. But if not next weekend, then the following, and so on until my mother gets what she wants.

"Do I have to be sober for this thing?"

"Maddie…"

"Okay, okay." The whine I'm trying to hold back filters through my voice anyway. "Text me the address."

"No need. I'll pick you up, and we can make a day out of it."

That's the very last thing I want. A whole day of my mother nagging me about why I can't lose weight for the wedding? Hard freaking pass.

"Sorry, Mom, but I'm seriously busy with school and work. We'll have to hang out later, okay?" It's not a lie, but I still feel crappy.

That's what happens when I talk to Mom. I either feel crappy because of what she says or what she implies, or I feel crappy because I can't fully tell her how much those things upset me without her blowing up. It's like walking through a field full of land mines.

She lets out a sigh that could break records. "See? You wouldn't have to work so hard if you'd picked a more sensible degree."

"Did you forget how Meg had to study for like ninety hours a week when she was in school?"

"Yeah, but that was for a good purpose."

And there it is. The cold knife of parental disapproval thrusting into my heart with clinical precision, right where it hurts the most.

I wish Mom understood that books are a good purpose. The best. Books are an escape. A friend. The fantasy you know you'll never get to live in real life. The parent or the teacher you need during hard times. A window into a different world. And the honest living of so many people.

She acts like I'm the only fool who wants to pay the bills off dead trees. But she sure enjoys the occasional Nora Roberts off the supermarket shelf, huh?

"I have to go."

"Maddie, you know I just worry about you. I wish you would?—"

"No, I really have to go. My boss is calling me." A complete lie for lack of a legit exit.

"Oh, okay," she practically chirps, oblivious to the fact I'm about to cry. "I'll see you in eleven days, then. So exciting!"

"Yes. Super exciting." I clench my jaw and squeeze my eyes shut.

"Bye, baby!"

"Bye, Mom."

I end the call and fling my phone onto the pillows.

No, I'm not going to cry. I've gotten over every passive-aggressive or plain-aggressive comment about my looks or choices for twenty-one years. This isn't a new hurt. I can get past this easily.

"Shut up," I hiss as my phone starts buzzing again.

I can't find the annoying thing, though. I run my hands over my pillows and under, and nothing. It buzzes incessantly until it stops. I squeeze my hand into the space between the mattress and the wall and voilà.

This time the caller was Rebs. That's weird. We barely talk in person, forget on the phone. Still, I call her back. Twice. And she doesn't pick up. A butt-dial, maybe? But that would only work if she made her butt the feature her phone recognizes to unlock. The mental image is so ridiculous it lifts my mood for all of a minute.

Next thing I know, the banging of the front door opening and slamming against the wall cuts through the quiet in the apartment. Followed by voices. Many. Including male ones.

I rush to my bedroom door and glue my ear to it.

"Make yourselves at home, guys!" a voice that is distinctly Lori's says. So obviously, these aren't burglars.

"Where's the PS?" a guy calls out. That's the last I discern before the chatter grows louder.

A knock on my door startles me, but then Rebs's voice sounds from the other side. "Hey, it's me."

I open the door a crack and whisper, "What the heck is happening?"

"Change of plans." She wrinkles her nose. "Tiff's Play Station was apparently more interesting than a night out partying and drinking."

It's only Tuesday , I want to say, but I don't. Nobody wants a homebody's condescension.

"Okay."

She pushes her blond hair behind her ear. "You can hang out with us if you want."

I recognize the olive branch for what it is, and yet I push it right back.

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"The guys are super nice," Rebs adds in a hushed voice. "They're also hockey players so, like, super, super hot."

I choke on my own saliva.

I've gone almost four years without crossing paths with a single hockey player, and now they're everywhere.

"Exactly." She sighs.

"Uh, I'll still pass." I offer a smile I know is watery at best. "I'm kinda busy, so…"

"Okay." She shrugs. "Just join us if you change your mind."

Still smiling, I close my door and sag against it.

If I weren't a frumpy mess. If I hadn't let my mom or Lori or the bullies of the world get in my head. If I were a confident awkward turtle. Maybe then I'd have what it takes to casually chat with hot guys without making a fool of myself.

I'm dragging my feet back to my bed when my eyes zero in on my empty mug on the night table, then on the empty water bottle beside it. On cue, my stomach grumbles, demanding something. Anything.

"No," I whisper down at the traitor. I can't believe my plan of staying holed up in my room for the rest of the night has been foiled so quickly. I rummage through my bag and come up blank on snacks or surprise water bottles, so a trip to the kitchen must be made.

Not to be dramatic, but when I open my bedroom door, it feels as if I'm about to embark on the quest to get rid of The One Ring. Suddenly, my bedroom door is pushed open by a force that doesn't come from me, and I stumble back.

There, in front of me, is the hottest hockey boy—again.

"Whoa, there." Aran Rodriguez does a double take. "Strawberry?"

"What are you doing in my room?" I squeak out.

He makes a casual sweep of my surroundings with his eyes. "Obviously this isn't the bathroom."

"Obviously not!" I squeeze myself between the doorframe and the door, pulling it closed behind me. Which leaves me far too close to him, seeing as he hasn't moved away. I crane my neck back to meet his piercing eyes.

"You're not stalking me, are you?" he has the nerve to ask.

"How could I possibly be stalking you when you're the one who barged into my bedroom?"

A corner of his lips twitches.

Dang, he has pretty lips. Wide. Thick. Moisturized. I wonder if he wears lip balm. I should make a note about that in my journal. I bet hockey players' lips get chapped easily.

"I did not barge in. I've stayed out here the whole time." His voice is the perfect companion to the work of art that is his mouth. Rumbly. Deep. A bit raspy. "Where's the bathroom?"

I fix my attention on his eyes and say, "Door behind you."

Finally, he takes a step back and points at me. "First door, they said." He shifts his finger backward. "Should've said first on the right."

"Ha ha, yeah."

Those glorious lips stretch just a smidge, but then they disappear as he turns around and heads into the bathroom I share with two other girls.

Oh no. The bathroom's a disaster zone. What if he sees the hundred pots of acne creams I have on the counter? I should've picked up when Rebs called. Maybe I'd have had time to…

Who am I kidding? No matter what I do, I'll always be a mess. And I don't have to bust my butt trying to impress this guy or anyone else; I should just be myself, no matter what. I push my shoulders back, lift my chin, and march to the kitchen.