Cannon(43)

Hendrix stands up, and I swallow the lump in my throat as he crosses the room and slides his arm around my waist. "Or we could just say 'fuck it' and do it again."

I want to say yes. I want to toss everything aside, all my worries and concerns about what might happen. I want to shut the door and lock away the outside world.

But I don't say that. I don't say anything, and Hendrix exhales heavily and shrugs. "Yeah, I thought as much. Listen – it's nothing to get stressed out over. I'll sneak out of here and no one's going to catch me. It's not a big deal. It's like it never happened."

"Hendrix, I – " I start, but he's already at the door, pulling it open a crack, and I hold my breath as I watch him stick his head out the door, and then disappear. I close the door behind him, and I sink back down on the bed as doubt starts to creep into my mind.

It's like it never happened.



"I know you said on the phone that you were under the weather," Grace says, holding up a grocery bag. "So I brought chicken soup and a movie and – hey, you don't look sick. Oh my God, were you blowing me off?"

Shit. Busted. I glance down the hallway in the direction of Hendrix's room and his closed door. As soon as we got back from our parents' house, after the awkwardly long and silent drive here, I feigned a headache and holed up in my room, listlessly browsing the internet and reading tabloid articles about my friends. Trashy, I know.

I should talk to Hendrix about what happened. But what do I say? He seems to be fine with acting like it never happened. "I wasn't blowing you off," I lie. "We went to mom's last night."

"Oh, God," Grace groans. "I try to stay away from that place as much as possible. Say no more. I totally understand."

"I'm just tired," I say, taking the bag from her as she steps inside. "Where's Brady?"

"Mama needs an evening of peace," she said. "There's an exhibit at the science museum that's open late tonight, and Roger is taking him to see it. And I thought I'd come over and talk to a real-life non-toddler for a change."

"Well, I can't promise that talking to me will be all that much different from talking to Brady."

"Will you throw yourself on the floor and scream incoherently because I cut your chicken nuggets into bite-sized pieces instead of allowing you to attempt to swallow them whole?" she asks.

I laugh. "In fact, I can promise that won't happen. But only because you brought soup and not chicken nuggets." I take the containers out of the bag. "Ooh, chicken tortilla from my favorite Mexican restaurant."

"I'm the best sister in the world," she interrupts, sitting on the barstool across the kitchen counter.

"You are," I agree. I open one of the cabinets and take out two bowls, pouring soup from the containers into the dishes.

"Where's Hendrix?" she asks, and my hand slips. Chicken soup pours over the edge of one of the bowls.

"Shit," I say, scrambling for a paper towel to clean it up. "I don't know. He's probably in his room. I haven't seen him. I mean, I saw him last night. At mom's. Only at dinner. Nothing else, though." I can feel the heat on my face as I ramble, my words making me sound both stupid and guilt-ridden.

"Are you talking about me?" Hendrix enters the kitchen, looking just as sexy as when I woke up with him in bed this morning. Except now he's wearing clothes, jeans and a white t-shirt, which should be completely unassuming. In reality, they make him look hotter than a damn model.

"Hey, sweetie!" Grace runs over to Hendrix and hugs him. His arm around her, he looks at me, and it makes my cheeks flush. I pretend to be busy with the chips and avocado and cheese, opening the little containers to sprinkle the contents on the tortilla soup. "I brought soup. I thought Addison was sick, but it turns out she was just lying."

"Oh?" Hendrix asks.

"She told me about you guys going to mom's last night."

"She did, did she?" Hendrix asks, and I sputter, choking even though I'm not eating anything. I think I see Hendrix smile, and for some reason, the fact that he can be so cavalier about what happened makes me more upset.

"Yeah, I'd have a headache too if I had to deal with our mother for anything more than a few minute conversation," Grace says. "Which is why I have to limit my time with her. You want to do dinner and a movie with us? It's a girl movie, but we could watch a thriller or something."

"Hendrix is probably going running, right, Hendrix?" I ask. There is no way I'm sitting through dinner and a movie with Grace and Hendrix after what just happened between him and I. Grace is the sister version of a bloodhound, brilliant at sniffing out secrets, and the last thing I need is her figuring out what happened.