“Alfie—” Freddie starts.
“Thanks for the gym access.” My voice comes out cold, controlled.
“You can’t keep running from this,” Ethan calls after me.
But I’m already gone, feet hitting pavement before the door fully closes. The late afternoon sun beats down as I set a punishing pace. No route in mind, just away. Away from their concern, away from the truth in Ethan’s words.
Three miles in, sweat soaking my shirt, and I still can’t outrun the image of her face. The hurt in her eyes when I said we should stop pretending. Like I’ve ever been pretending. Like I wasn’t falling for her so hard it terrified me.
Four miles. My lungs burn but it’s better than the ache in my chest.
Five miles.
I stop abruptly, hands on my knees, breathing hard.
The sun’s setting by the time I make it home. The house is dark - Freddie and Ethan probably still at the gym, probably talking about what an idiot I am. They’re not wrong.
I head straight for the shower, letting the hot water pound against muscles that will definitely hate me tomorrow.But at least physical pain makes sense. At least it’s something I can control.
Unlike the way my heart speeds up every time I catch a glimpse of pink in a crowd, hoping it’s her. Unlike the way my fingers itch to sketch her smile, her eyes, the way she looks when she’s excited about something. Unlike the hollow feeling in my chest that no amount of running seems to fix.
I am so fucked.
“Get your ass in the car!”Ethan’s voice booms inside the house. He’s standing in the doorway wearing cargo shorts and what appears to be a fishing vest with entirely too many pockets. “We’re going fishing.”
I wipe my face with a towel. “No.”
“Wasn’t a question, Spencer.” He tosses something at me—a baseball cap with a fish on it. “Car. Five minutes. Don’t make me carry you.”
“I have lab work?—”
“Already called Hammond. Told her you’ve got food poisoning.” His grin is manic. “Now move it before I start telling everyone about the time you cried watching Finding Nemo.”
“I was drunk.” I protest, but he’s already walking away, whistling something that sounds suspiciously like “Under the Sea.”
Freddie’s trying not to laugh. “You should go. Before he starts singing.”
An hour later, I’m sitting in a fold-out chair by some lake I didn’t know existed, holding a fishing rod I have noidea how to use. Ethan hasn’t said much since we arrived, just handed me a beer and pointed at the water.
A pair of birds wheel overhead, diving and chasing each other. It reminds me of Tara’s laugh—how it would bubble up from nowhere, infectious and bright. She’d probably know what kind of birds they are. Would probably launch into some fascinating story about their mating habits or migration patterns...
“You’re doing it again,” Ethan says.
“What?”
“That thing where you think about Tara and look like someone kicked your puppy.”
I take a long pull of my beer. “I’m not?—”
“Save it.” He adjusts his ridiculous hat. “Want to tell me why you’re avoiding your friends, living at the gym, and making that poor freshman cry?”
“I didn’t make him cry.”
“He definitely teared up when you criticized his mineral identification skills.”
“His technique was sloppy?—”
“Alfie.” Ethan’s voice is uncharacteristically serious. “What’s going on?”
