Dribble {Sequel to Coach Styles}

Eight-

The next few weeks were a whirlwind. Robert and I slowly started hanging out again, silence taking up more of the space around us than we did. Dad was in the kitchen, making dinner and Robert stood up. The tag on his shirt was sticking up and I quickly realized his shirt was on inside out. 

"Hey." 

"What?" he grinned, turning around hesitantly. I could see a flicker of hope in his eyes. 

"Your shirt is on inside out. You might wanna go fix it." I kept my voice flat. 

"Oh." He reached behind his head, pulling his shirt off and fixing it. I cleared my throat, forcing my eyes to look at the TV. He'd somehow gotten better looking and the glimpse I caught of his stomach made mine flip. 

"Thanks for telling me," he said before walking into the kitchen. I rolled my eyes, turning off the TV. By the time I got to the end of the stairs, Robert was back in the living room and I quickly made it up the stairs to my room. The urge to scream overcame me and I merely clenched my fists as tight as I could. The clock on the wall ticking, torturing me to go back down there and talk to him.  Minutes turned into and hour, or what felt like at least four. 

"Go away," I snapped, hearing the door open. 

"After all this time, that's the first thing you wanna say to your old mom?" I turned around and there she was. Standing in the flesh with a hesitant smile.

"Why are you here? You need to leave." 

"Your dad let me in. I wanted you to meet your little sister. She's almost seven."

"I don't want to see you, nor even speak to you.You need to leave." 

"Honey, I wanna talk."

"Well, I don't. Leave."

"Hone-"

"I said leave!" I screamed. "Do what you do best and leave!" Footsteps filled my ears coming up the stairs and soon dad appeared in the doorway. 

"Hey," he whispered, stepping past her and wrapping his arms around me. 

"I-" she started. 

"It's time to go." I let the tears that had built up go and it seemed that they were never ending. Her shoulders were slumped as she walked out of the room. I leaned into dad, not wanting him to let me go, but eventually he did. Clearing my throat after what felt like hours of crying, I wiped my eyes. Walking back downstairs, Robert was still sitting there. I pulled some fruit from the fridge. 

"Hey," he said, standing and walking toward me.

"Hi." My voice was scratchy and weak. 

"Can I have some?" I looked down at the bowl of pineapple and slid it toward him. The silence was almost unbearable. My eyebrows furrowed in frustration.

"There's leftovers from dinner if you're really hungry. Your dad made lemon pepper and garlic chicken and some asparagus and mashed. It was really good."

"Thanks." He opened the fridge, sitting a plate down beside me on the counter, covered in foil. 

"Yep." Everything felt forced, almost robotic. 

"Look," he sighed. "I know you hate me for not having an answer back to you, but I can't take this anymore. I wanna be with you."

"Good for you." The chicken was cold, but surprisingly good. 

"That's all you have to say?" 

"For right now, yes." I continued eating.  

"Unbelievable."