The house is freezing when I get home. My father must be here. With this house being so big and him being such a reclusive neat freak, the temperature of the house is one of the only ways I can tell the man is in. I never see his car because he keeps it parked in the garage, which is too small for my pickup truck.

My phone rings and it’s Nya.

“Hello,” I answer, and sit down on the concrete bench in the mudroom.

“Hey, heard about the game. Sorry you lost,” she says.

“Thanks,” I reply, and take off my LeBrons. The cold stone floor shocks the bottoms of my feet, even through thick socks.

“Heard you still had thirty-six points, though.”

Did I? I think. Carli made me forget all about my stats.

“It never feels good losing, but at least that’s a positive,” she says.

Nya’s big on positives. I like that about her. “True,” I say, and store my shoes in a cubicle beneath the bench.

“So, did Danny have an off night?”

“Nah, not really.”

“Oh, Jason was ball hogging again?”

“No.”

“Well, what happened, then?”

I usually like that Nya asks a lot of questions. Keeps the conversation flowing, which I’ll admit, I’m not always the best at. But tonight, the only answer to her questions is Carli. How do I tell her that?

“Oh, well. Can’t win ’em all,” she says, letting me off the hook. “I figured since y’all lost, you wouldn’t feel like going to the movies.”

But I can tell by the hope in her voice that she still wants to go. Hope that’s making me feel terrible because I’m wondering what it would be like to take Carli to the movies. What it would be like to see her again. I have to see her again. “Yeah, it’s probably too late now.”

“Well, there’s actually a midnight showing if you want to make that?”

“Sorry, I’m too tired,” I lie, and make my way to the kitchen. When I get there, I open the fridge. “Arepas! Angie must’ve come today.”

“A-what-who?”

I take the Pyrex out of the fridge and put it on the counter. “Let me tell you, Angie’s arepas go so hard.”

“Who’s Angie?” Nya asks with a hint of she-bet’-not-be-a-side-piece in her voice, which doesn’t even make sense.

I’ve already told her that I don’t have time to waste trying to keep up with multiple girls. And even if I did, what kind of fool would I be telling her about one of them? “My babysitter,” I say, and get a plate out of the cabinet.

“Babysitter?” Now she sounds confused.