He squeezes my shoulder. “Do you have a different shirt you can put on?”
My other shirt is tucked around the top of my messenger bag and I incline my head toward it. “That one.”
Ryne shakes his head. “You dropped it into a puddle. Hold on.” He drops his arm and turns around, propping himself up on his knees as he fumbles around behind his seat. After finding what he’s looking for, he twists back around to face front, settling into his seat properly. “Here.” He presses a black t-shirt to my stomach and I wrap a hand around it. “I had it on for like ten minutes but it’s mostly clean.”
I unfold it and smile. It’s one of his many shirts with arrows on it. I draw my t-shirt off over my head and then pull his shirt on. “Thanks.” I already feel a lot better with a dry shirt. That it’s Ryne’s shirt and it smells like him is an added bonus. His scent wafts up at me and I refrain from shoving my nose into the fabric and inhaling deeply. Then I notice his arm around me again. Maybe I’m smelling the man himself and not so much the shirt. My smile’s got the teeniest bit of wicked in it, though the exhaustion is settling in. “Still trying to keep me from getting cold?”
The corners of his mouth twitch. “Yup. Damp hair.” He reaches a hand to my forehead and brushes a few strands of hair back into place. “You never mentioned you get panic attacks.”
A sarcastic laugh bubbles up from my chest. Because that’s the kind of thing I just love to bring up in conversation with people, particularly the guy I’m attracted to. Sure, let me unload that stellar detail on him so the small part of his brain that acknowledges me turns to pity. I was trying to avoid it at all costs.
“I get panic attacks,” I state dryly.
He pinches me lightly on the side, but then gently kisses the top of my head.
“I’m all sweaty,” I croak out.
“I like you all sweaty.” After a moment Ryne speaks again, quietly. “What triggered the panic attack?”
I stiffen and he rubs my arm. Don’t say it, Dacen. Don’t say it. Just keep your mouth shut.
“You pulled away from me like you were ashamed or something.” Well, shit. I said it. Ryne’s arm muscles tense and he breathes quietly as the seconds lapse.
“I’m sorry, Dacen.”
I close my eyes and settle against him. He tightens his arm around me.
“Okay.”
35
Ryne
Once I got home Tuesday evening the weight of everything started to hit hard. Dacen’s panic attack wouldn’t stop replaying in my mind. How the hell was I supposed to know pulling away from him would trigger one? I didn’t even know he suffers from them. Blaming it solely on my shoulders seems unfair, but at the same time my actions inadvertently hurt Dacen and I still feel like shit because of it. His words in my truck hit the hardest. I’m not ashamed of Dacen nor am I ashamed to be seen with him. My pulling away had nothing to do with him and everything to do with me. Even had it not made him panic, it was still a shitty thing for me to do. I’ve never seen anything so haunting as his eyes when I turned to him in the booth. It was like staring at a chained lion stuck in a cramped four-foot by four-foot cell, its tail angrily swinging as it tries to pace back and forth while the chains squeeze tighter and tighter.
To make matters worse, I got two more text messages while I drove Dacen back to school so he could drive home.
Ryne, please call me.
We need to talk.
I couldn’t fall asleep. I tried taking a warm shower, listening to music, reading, staring aimlessly at the ceiling, nothing helped. I finally ended up in the backyard around eleven o’clock and nearly wore a path in the grass, dribbling a soccer ball back and forth down the length of the garage, over and over again under the moonlight for an hour. A constant tirade of thoughts sliced through me as I worked the soccer ball back and forth.
This is why I don’t date. Shit gets way too damn complicated.
We’re not dating. We’re messing-around-not-dating.
But I’m clearly messing with Dacen’s head.
And it’s clearly messing with mine.
I am so not good for Dacen.
I’m not done with him.
I don’t date.
But.
