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There was no fighting anything when it came to her.
Cursing, I spun around and stalked across the lot.
It was my own fucking fault, really. I was out here watching videos and looking at pictures I’d already looked at a million times. If I had just stayed inside, I wouldn’t have watched Shayla pull around back, park, and then bury her face in her hands. I wouldn’t know she was upset, and I sure as fuck wouldn’t be pressing her for information like I was about to do. I’d be staying clear of her.
But then she’d be out here crying by herself and thinking she was alone, and I didn’t know what pissed me off more—that understanding or the fact I knew I had options that didn’t involve me, and I wasn’t taking them.
Tori was here. I could go inside and tell her to handle this, knowing that was the smarter thing to do, but was I doing that? Was I even considering doing that?
Nope.
I was a fucking idiot when it came to this girl. One look at my phone, and anyone would see that. That stupid app was still open.
There was also Nate. I could go to him. Jesus Christ, I could even get J.R. out here. Anyone. This didn’t need to be me.
Except it did.
I had to do this. It was either me or no one, and I wouldn’t let it be no one.
Stopping at the driver’s side door, I rapped my knuckles against the window and watched Shayla jerk her head out of her hands and turn to me with wide, tear-filled eyes.
She had streaks of black running down her cheeks, and her pretty pink lips were parted. She looked confused. She looked sad as fuck. She looked a little scared.
I got the confused—I didn’t understand what the hell I was doing over here either. I had an idea what was getting her so sad. But the scared shit? What the fuck?
Was she scared of me?
When she didn’t move, I motioned for her to roll the window down.
Shayla hesitated, then slowly reached over while keeping her eyes locked with mine and pressed the button on the door.
“Your dad?” I asked her when the window was lowered.
Back when she was planting her ass on that counter and speaking to me throughout her shifts, her dad had been diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. She worried about him all the time—she told me she did, and even if she hadn’t, I would’ve known how worried she was just going off the fear in her voice every time she spoke about him.
I figured this was what had her so upset.
She was slow to respond, just kept staring at me and looking more confused by the second, then finally, my words penetrated.
“What?” she whispered.
Or maybe they didn’t.
“Your dad,” I repeated. “Did somethin’ happen? Is he worse?”
“You remember about my dad?”
“Wasn’t that long ago you told me about it. Why wouldn’t I remember?”
“I…I don’t know. I just.” She quickly shook her head, as if to clear thoughts away she didn’t want to hear. “Never mind. Um, no, he’s the same. Nothing happened.” Shayla sniffled while rubbing the back of her fingers against her cheek to catch a tear, then noticing the black on her knuckles, she cursed and proceeded to wipe aggressively at her cheeks with both hands, cleaning the mess off her face.
I watched her do this while waiting for her to share what was bothering her, but then decided she probably wouldn’t offer that information up without me asking her for it, and that was the last fucking thing I needed to be doing.
So here it was—my out. This was when I needed to walk away.
And I could. Shayla seemed to be calming down. She wasn’t steadily crying anymore, meaning there was no fucking reason for me to be standing here. It was time for me to go.
“If it ain’t about your dad, what is it?” I asked instead of heading inside, realizing that was the last fucking thing I wanted to do, not needed. I wasn’t thinking about what needed to happen anymore. I was doing what I wanted. Fuck it.
There was a lot wrong with me, but this might’ve been the dumbest fucking move of my life. I might’ve regretted this forever.
Or…
Shayla pressed her head back against the seat, closed her eyes through a breath, and then opened them to look at me with an expression I never expected to see from anyone: gratitude. She wanted me to pry, because she couldn’t share what was going on with her if I didn’t.
We didn’t do this. Not anymore. We didn’t talk.
I’d made sure of that the day I fucked her over.
But now, I was changing that. I was asking for more, and maybe she wanted me knowing just as badly as I wanted her telling. And if that was the case, I’d keep asking her. I knew I would. And I wouldn’t regret anything. Not with that look she was giving me.
