Out of My League - Sarah Sutton Page 0,60

pressed my head against the railing, feeling like a normal kid. Hiding around the corner, heart racing.

“Oh, please,” Dad said back at her, voice cracking. “Make this my fault for working too hard. We were fine until you went and rented out that new studio by the bay. The one on River Street was perfectly fine!”

Mom said something low and under her breath, and I couldn’t catch it.

“Well, then, I’m sorry, Amber.” Dad’s voice got closer, but I was too dazed to move. “I’m sorry I ever wanted to help you, help this family, help—Sophia?”

Dad looked at me through the posts of the railing, his back curving with the posture of a defeated man.

“Were you eavesdropping?”

Mom appeared over his shoulder, eyes widening a little bit. I tried not to look too closely, but I could still see the tears in her eyes. “Sophia.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said emphatically, using my anger to deflect my hurt feelings. Not that they’d know the difference. “When you’re yelling the house down, I thought it was okay to listen in.”

Dad frowned. “We weren’t yelling.”

Right, because when I could hear their voices through the floorboards, that still counted as a whisper.

I briefly closed my eyes, wishing that this would disappear if I refused to look at the situation. “I should be used to it by now, don’t you think? Living with parents who yell at each other and ignore their daughter.”

I should’ve been used to it, but I wasn’t.

“Sophia.” I didn’t have my eyes open, but I could hear the hurt in Mom’s voice, broken and chopped.

The gear-grinding screech of bad brakes hinted that Walsh pulled into the driveway, ready to pick me up. Practically jumping down the stairs, I moved past Mom and Dad, making sure they couldn’t see how close I was to tears. “I’m going to Walsh’s.”

“Sophia, wait,” Dad called after me. “Let’s just talk, okay? Just wait—”

I hauled open the front door and whirled around. They’d stopped about a foot from me, an ironically united front. “I’m still here,” I told them slowly, my throat tight and pained, “even though it’s easier to pretend that I’m not.”

They were words that were better off unsaid, words that only did damage, and I watched as they did just that. Mom’s face crumpled in on itself, a look of sheer pain flitting across her features, and Dad’s frown broke into a defeated look. I so badly wanted this to be their wake up moment, the moment where they saw the error of their ways and everything would change. But hoping for that burned me in the past.

“Don’t wait up,” I told them, and I hate, hate, hated how my voice cracked. Without giving them a chance to respond, I pulled the door shut behind me.

I half expected them to open it back up and yell at me while I hurried down the porch steps, maybe even try to ground me again for talking back, but they didn’t.

Walsh was already out of his car and in the process of shutting the door when he spotted me cutting across the yard. He frowned, removing his sunglasses. “Those are not sweatpants, Sophie.”

“Get in the car,” I told him with a voice that was thick and splintered, my hand shaking as I reached for the handle. “And drive.”

Walsh didn’t hesitate, didn’t ask whether or not I was okay, didn’t look at me with a question in his eyes. He simply replied, with unwavering speed, “You got it.”

Chapter Seventeen

Walsh remained quiet as he pulled into the attached garage, effortlessly maneuvering it around the sports equipment that cluttered the space. He didn’t ask me what happened and I didn’t offer the information up. I couldn’t talk about it—not yet. So we sat in silence.

His fingers drummed against the worn steering wheel with a restless energy, knee bobbing up and down.

I couldn’t believe it. Walsh Hunter was actually nervous.

I’d taken enough deep breaths to get the tears to subside from my eyes, to get my voice back under control. But that didn’t mean that the emotions were gone; pain and hurt were still sitting just underneath the surface, simmering. “Wow, I would’ve thought you’d have a guy that parks your cars for you.”

Walsh glanced over at me, his eyes still shielded by darkened sunglasses, popping open his door. “We give him Saturdays off.”

I watched him as he slid from the car, moving effortlessly, like he was being filmed for a commercial, leaving me sitting incredulous.

Just before he shut the door, Walsh