Chapter 16

CHAPTER 16

PRESLEY

When the game is over, I want to run up to Brock, throw my arms around him, and tell him how proud I am of him. He was so awesome . I was working among all the guys during the game, so I heard the way they talked about him, the way the offensive line praised his sharp eyes and laser instincts. I beamed every time I heard it.

But I have to be just-friend Presley, and that means watching my every move.

Still, when he walks up to me, his grin so wide it could power the stadium, I start to open my arms. It’s natural. As instinctual as the way Brock has a sixth sense for when someone’s moving in on his quarterback. I quickly drop my arms and content myself with throwing all my pride into my smile.

For a half second, Brock leans toward me, and then he straightens, shaking himself a little.

“That was amazing,” I say, turning so that I’m walking down the sidelines with him toward the tunnel and the locker room. I’ve got a couple guys I need to check on, but I want to make sure I spend a minute telling Brock how cool he is. That’s what friends do. It doesn’t mean anything more.

“Thanks, Pres. It felt amazing. ”

I almost reach up to squeeze his elbow, then stop myself. This is harder than I thought. “Everyone loves you.”

“Probably not everyone.”

“I’m pretty sure it was everyone.”

He stops arguing. He leans sideways, like he might bump into me, but then shuffles away. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “Must be tired.”

He does look tired, and he played so hard, obviously trying to prove to the team that they didn’t make a mistake picking him up.

Maybe that’s why we fall into a weird silence as we continue walking together. Normally, Brock and I would have so much to talk about it would be hard to walk away from him to do my job. I want to tell him about the ring, but this isn’t the place. If the other night hadn’t happened, and I hadn’t screwed things up, we’d probably have some shorthand way to discuss it now and how I’ve been trying to find people through Aunt Shannon’s Facebook who might have set her up.

Ugh. Why is this so hard?

I should have never said anything about my feelings, just suffered in silence, like a good romance-novel heroine. “Well,” I say the same time he says, “So…”

I rush on. “I’m sorry. I gotta go do PT stuff. See you Tuesday morning?”

He waves me off with a happy expression I can tell is a little fake. “Bright and early.”

I give him what I hope is a teammate-like pat on the pads and then hurry into the tunnel. We’ll be spending the entire day together on Tuesday. Will it end up in disaster?

Talking is easier Sunday and Monday nights via text as we make the arrangements for the book signing. The flight is about five hours, and book sales at the little bookstore where it will be releasing start at noon. Brock and I both agreed that an hour early should be plenty to get the tickets to the gathering, but with the time difference, it means our flight is taking off at one a.m.

Brock has made all the travel arrangements, not giving me many details other than he’ll pick me up at my apartment, and that our ride from Teterboro Airport to the bookstore in Queens is taken care of. He won’t let me chip in any money for it either.

You bought the tickets , he texted when I argued about it. Those were cheap compared to everything he’s arranging.

I got a couple hours of sleep but I don’t know if that’s better considering I’m loopy enough to forget I have to be just-friend Presley now, and I cry, “Oh, I love you,” when he hands me a coffee cup. Then I widen my eyes. “I was talking to the coffee,” I say quickly.

“Gingerbread latte,” he says.

I press my lips together before I again confess my love for him and can’t cover it up. “You are awesome.” I pat him on the shoulder like I did at the game. His warmth spreads across my hand, shooting straight up my arm and to my heart. I can be his friend. I can. I can . This will be my mantra, and I will ignore any such warmth that touching him creates.

“You’re welcome.” He steps into the apartment and puts his hands in his pockets. He stays just a few steps inside. It’s only the third time he’s been here, but the other two times he made himself comfortable on the couch pretty much right away.

“You ready?” he asks.

I grab my travel bag from the floor by the couch. I’m bringing the collector’s book Aunt Shannon got for me. If we get to meet Gideon Thornridge today, I’m going to try asking him about the book. He’s signed so few books, there’s a chance he’ll remember my aunt. I also have a small blanket tucked inside my bag, since planes are always cold. I’m wearing my stretchy, super comfy wide-leg jeans and my Straight Outta Eldraeth hoodie. (The fan merch you can find in the forum is seriously top notch.) I grab my coat, sit down to pull on my tennis shoes, then pop back up.

“Ready.”

“Nice hoodie,” Brock says with a smirk. He shifts back his black jacket to reveal a t-shirt that says, “Plot twist: I’m the Obsidian Queen.”

I snort with laughter. “So perfect.”

His smirk widens to a grin. “I know.” For a tiny moment everything is the same as it always was between us, and I almost sigh with contentment. I get ahold of myself so I don’t ruin this small piece of us and pick up my coffee from the side table to head downstairs.

An SUV idles next to the curb with a driver waiting for us. I look over at Brock, one eyebrow raised at this flex.

“Easier than parking a car,” he grunts and opens the door for me.

“Not complaining.” I slip in and across the seat, and then realize we have to take such a large vehicle because Brock literally couldn’t fold himself into anything smaller. His head is almost brushing the ceiling, and his knees are pulled uncomfortably close to him. And listen, it’s by no doing of mine that despite me sitting in the normal place one would behind the driver, my arm is brushing Brock’s. He just takes up that much space. He’s huge, and I rarely notice it except in moments like this.

“You should’ve sat in front,” I say to him. “More leg room.”

“This is fine.” He shrugs, and our arms brush again.

Be cool, Presley. The electricity enveloping my whole body from that one brush is not a big deal. I look out the window and sip the delicious latte he brought me.

“Where’s your coffee?” I ask when I realize he’s not holding a cup.

“I don’t drink caffeine.” He pulls a water bottle from the backpack at his feet.

“Goodie-goodie. ”

He bursts into laughter. “This is a fine-tuned machine, Pres,” he says, ever-so-seriously.

It is a very fine tuned machine. To cover for the way I was checking him out, I reach across him and grab his backpack, pulling it over to rest on my side.

“I have plenty of room for this.” I take another sip of my latte and stare ahead.

Brock shifts and then moves his arm across the top of the seat, but he makes sure he’s not touching me with any part of his arm. “Sorry,” he says, and something passes between us. An admission that he knows how this looks, and he feels bad he’s initiating it when he was so worried about leading me on. “It’s just a really small car.”

That comment is what makes everything okay because the lightness to our conversation is real. “It’s not a small car at all, Brock,” I say. “It’s an Escalade. It’s one of the biggest SUVs out there.”

“It feels small.” He shifts again, trying unsuccessfully to sit further onto his side.

In that moment, we could be riding in a tiny, two-door clown car and it wouldn’t be any more suffocating than the way it feels right now. The space in here is packed full of the feelings for him I shouldn’t have and the weight of his rejection.

“We could be riding in a Humvee and you’d be cramped.” I lean my head against my window. How isn’t the presence of us in this car pressing in on Brock the way it is on me? It would be much easier if I could scoot close to him and nestle underneath his arm. Close my eyes and fall asleep against him.

I shake the daydream off and force a smile. This is going to be a long day.

Flying private is amazing. Security is a breeze, and the plane is simple, yet gorgeous. The leather of the seats is buttery. There are four single chairs, two on each side of the plane, and they swivel so they can face each other. There’s also a love seat and a small bar taking up the back part of the seating section. Brock sits in one of the single chairs, and I sit in the one that’s already swiveled to face him. I busy myself with pulling out my blanket and rummaging in my backpack for my headphones as the plane prepares for takeoff, and we’re both quiet. I’m hoping it has to do with the early morning hour rather than still being uncomfortable around each other.

Once I’m situated, I stare out the window and try to think of a conversation topic that will put us back on even footing. Obviously anything about TOK. Without any awkwardness, we can speculate all day long about what we think will be in book sixteen. We can argue about how Brock thinks the black ring that grants Lyra her power is the Obsidian Ring that makes her identity as the Obsidian Queen obvious.

Listen, I can see how he might get there. But isn’t that a little too obvious? Right? Thornridge is a better writer than that.

The ring.

I can ask him what he thinks I should do about the Christmas ring.

That’s perfect. I can pick up on the conversation I planned to have with Brock before the Christmas Cookie Debacle.

I turn from the window to look at him. “Brock, what level would you say our friendship is?”

There’s panic in his eyes for a moment, but he smooths it out. I hear how that could have sounded, considering what happened last week, but I don’t address it.

“How are we measuring?” he asks in an indifferent tone.

“From you’d like my post on Instagram to you’d bury a body with me.” Before I tell him everything, it’s definitely important to know if he’ll support me in slightly criminal activity.

“Who else in your life would actually be as well-equipped as me to carry a body for you?” His lips twitch, and I struggle to keep a straight face .

See. When we can ignore the silly thing I did, our friendship is great. But also, the way he went right to that joke? Heart flutters.

Why, Brock Hunter? Why can’t you fall in love with me?

“Good point,” I say, instead of indulging the urge to beg him to love me. “So we’re saying we’re at bury a body level?”

“Absolutely.”

I look down at my lap and tap my fingers against my bag. “And you wouldn’t be bothered if I admitted to mild criminal activity.” I look up in time to catch his eyebrows jumping.

His expression stays chill, but the amusement leaves. “I know you well enough to trust that any mild criminal activity you’d participate in is probably justified.”

I let out a sigh. “It is. And it’s Aunt Shannon’s fault.”

He leans forward, but a flight attendant interrupts to ask us to buckle our seatbelts so we can take off. Brock sits back again, and we do as we’re asked. We wait until the attendant has left before we speak again.

“How did your aunt rope you into criminal activity?”

“She stole a ring. Or she held on to a ring for someone who stole it.” The words come in a rush of need to have someone else in on this when I haven’t been able to say anything. To have Brock in on this, the person I’ve come to trust as much as I did Aunt Shannon herself. “I don’t know because she left it in my box to take care of.”

He tilts his head, his expression clearly saying, “Go on.”

So I do. I tell him about how the Christmas ring was stolen from the Westcott’s party a year ago and how I found it.

“It would have been impossible for her to have stolen it herself,” I explain. “It was upstairs in a safe, and even if she knew how to break into a safe, she couldn’t have made it up the stairs without help. I don’t know how she got it or why she has it or why she left it with me, and I don’t know what to do.”

“And you want to know why,” he says in a low voice.

“I don’t want to turn it in and have Aunt Shannon blamed for stealing it when I don’t have any answers for how she might have gotten it.” I twist the fabric of my bag, wishing Brock has some magic answer for me.

He reaches across the space between us, takes my hand, and squeezes it. “We’ll figure it out.”

I relax, and I believe him. He doesn’t have an answer, but he’s there for me. And that’s enough, I think, for me. It doesn’t have to be more.

The lies I tell myself.

“Brock?” I squeeze his hand back in gratitude. “I’d totally bury a body with you too.”