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I gather my things, stuffing the books into my backpack and cramming my laptop between them. I pull the hood of my sweatshirt over my head, throw a jacket on top, and take a pair of gloves out of my pocket.
I jog down the library stairs while I dig around for my earbuds. When I push the front door open, the cold air feels like a wall in front of me. An involuntary shiver runs over my back. I don’t hate the cold, but I thoroughly dislike being cold. And the earbuds are still missing.
I walk down the street. The reasonable thing to do would be to go home and reheat some of the leftovers I diligently freeze every time I cook too much food. Yeah, my tuition is paid, and it makes things considerably easier, but I’m still on a tight budget because I really don’t need to owe Ryker any more money than strictly necessary. The fact that I already owe him so much is this constant, irritating, setting-my-teeth-on-edge feeling at the back of my mind, all day, every day.
And now he’s gone and made things fucking weird between us by randomly kissing me.
Asshole.
I’m halfway home when I pass a restaurant right at the same time a group of women come out the door, and the scent of something fried and delicious makes my stomach growl out loud. I spend the next minute trying to address the frugal, sensible part of my brain that should overpower the spontaneous side and make good decisions. I have leftover casserole in my fridge. I can’t waste money on takeout.
It’s a lost cause.
Maybe I’d have willpower to spare if I hadn’t skipped lunch, but I did, and the willpower supplies are low. And anyway, the voice in my head says I deserve a reward, so in the end I give up the fight disappointingly easily and head inside.
I grab a menu by the counter, nod a hello to the waitress, and order my food to go. I sit down at the bar and aimlessly scroll through my phone while I wait. I’m not sure what makes me turn around. Something in the air. A disturbance. A gut feeling.
Whatever it is, I glance behind me.
And there he is.
Sitting in one of the booths with a group of people. Three girls and three guys, all talking to each other animatedly and laughing.
Ryker sits next to a girl with long, silvery blond hair.
It’s fascinating how many tiny, insignificant details a person is able to take in with the briefest of glances.
She laughs at something he says.
Flips her hair over her shoulder.
She’s sitting so close their sides are pressed together, and she’s also leaning in toward him. Her nails have bright red polish on them. She keeps touching Ryker’s forearm every time she says something to him.
I don’t think he minds the attention.
There’s a sour taste in my mouth like I’ve just chugged a pint of pure lemon juice, but at the same time I’m well aware I have no reason to feel this irrationally pissed off about any of this.
But any kind of rejection—real or imaginary—always gets to me. It stings and scrapes and burns and festers until I’m filled to the brim with hostility and spite, ready to lash out at the slightest provocation.
It’s those pesky leftover daddy issues of mine.
And for fuck’s sake, seriously? Am I just conjuring Ryker up out of thin air now?
All my efforts and good intentions to keep him far away from my thoughts collapse in a glorious heap of rubble while my eyes greedily take him in. I’m not sure when this became a thing. Can’t pinpoint the exact moment he went from a nuisance to somebody I’d like to fuck.
Yeah.
There it is.
The forbidden thought.
Look away. Look away. Fucking look away.
He’s dressed casually, in jeans and a mustard yellow cable-knit sweater with the sleeves rolled up. Nothing too unusual. Ryker’s always liked dressing nicely. Judging by the way the blond can’t keep her eyes off him, I’d say she appreciates it too.
He’s still smiling at her.
Something scrapes over my insides with claws sharp as knives.
