“I’m sorry,” I said quietly.
Bella opened her mouth and then closed it again, as if she hadn’t expected me to say that. “I’m just telling you because you might hear all sorts of shit about me. But you don’t have anything to worry about.”
“I understand.”
She clapped her hands. “Moving on. Now let’s talk about West 165th Street.”
I opened my notebook and sifted through the pages. My brain was still trying to catch up with what she’d just said — and what she hadn’t. If Bella had walked into that house on fraternity row to deliver some very unpleasant news, she sure stayed there a while. It was after seven in the morning when I’d seen her stumbling out.
With insults inked all over her body.
What the hell happened during all that time? It didn’t take nine hours to tell a guy that kind of news.
Bella misinterpreted my silence. “I’m sure you’re clean.”
“I wasn’t worried, Bella.”
Her face showed very clearly that she didn’t believe me. “Urban Studies,” she clipped.
“Yes ma’am.” I took a seat in her desk chair, which was free of debris. “I took good notes yesterday because he was talking about affordable housing. So we have to decide whether we want to use a voucher system, or whatever.”
“Okay.” She twirled a strand of her hair between her fingers.
I knew exactly how soft her hair was, and how it felt in my hands. Her happy smile was another perfectly formed memory. After everything that had happened to her, I wondered when I might see that happy smile again, and whether there was anything I could do to bring it back.
Whatever it was, I would do it.
“Vouchers are the simplest,” Bella was saying. “If we wanted to get fancy, we could do something with sweat equity. Or even better — a rent-to-own setup. How complicated do you want to make this?”
“I’m not afraid of the work,” I told her. “I really need to win this thing.”
“Why?”
“The prize.”
She quirked an eyebrow. “Can’t you visit food trucks any old time? I mean, you can’t swing a pair of chopsticks without hitting one.”
“That’s not the point. I need to meet that guy in charge — the food truck guru. Our family restaurant could really rock one of those things. And I need to convince my mom that it’s a good idea. So if we win, I’d bring her as my date.”
Bella’s expression softened. “You’re like a walking chick flick.”
“Whatever. Just tell me what sweat equity is. And that other thing.”
Bella crossed her legs on the bed and began to explain. And for a little while, peace reigned in the kingdom. She looked like the old Bella, too, talking with her hands, her green eyes flashing. And I took notes so I could remember all the things she was telling me.
“Where’d you learn all of this?” I asked, scribbling furiously before I forgot what she’d said.
“I told you. Dinner table conversation. One-sided conference calls. Buildings are all my father ever talks about.”
There was a knock at the door. “Bella!” came a male voice.
Across from me, Bella flinched. She raised a finger to her lips, asking me to stay silent.
The knock persisted. “Bells, open up. Come on. I’m freaking out, here.”
With a sigh, Bella stood and crossed to the door. When she opened it, two men loomed in the doorway. When she backed away, they came inside.
The energy in the room changed in a way I did not like. The first guy in the door — a big blond guy — stared down at Bella, tension radiating off him. “Rikker said you weren’t at practice.”
Two pink spots appeared on Bella’s cheeks. She looked past her blond friend at the other guy. I recognized him — he was in about a hundred newspaper articles last year. The First Out Gay Player In Division One Hockey, etc. “You ratted me out?” Bella asked.
Rikker rolled his eyes. “We’re just worried about you, Bells.”
“That does not even begin to cover it,” the blond guy said. His jacket said GRAHAM on it. “What the hell happened? Who took that picture?”
Great. “Not the question,” I muttered, wishing he would just stand down. A minute ago, Bella had been relaxed for the first time in days. Now she sat down heavily, looking for all the world like she’d rather crawl under the bed than sit on it.
“And who are you?” Graham demanded, his attention swinging to me.