Page 75 of Burn Protocol

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21:08 E. Gonzales –

Thank you for staying today.

21:09 Maya Carter –

Of course.

I’ve been staring at her reply for the past five minutes, uncertain of what to say. In a way, her response has closed the door to continue the conversation. Not that I can blame her. Even if I felt the relief from her staying, the day had been awkward at best. Still, I am sitting here needing her to know… what exactly? How much I want things to go back to how they were. Except I don’t. Because this—all of this—is caused by how things were. No. What I want is for us to have all the good parts, without the extra drama around it. I need her to know that I am willing to choose her. If she’d still have me.

21:16 E. Gonzales –

Can we talk?

Three white dots flash on the screen—disappearing, reappearing, then disappearing again. My heart sinks as her status jumps to offline. I let out a defeated groan. There’s nothing else I can do. My own actions led to this, and now I’ve lost something beautiful before it even really started. Way to go, Gonzales. I slam my phone down so hard that it vibrates. But just as I want to curl up, it buzzes again. I snatch it off the table and stare at the screen.

Incoming call: Maya Carter

“Maya?”

Her name falls from my lips on a hasty breath. My chest rises quickly, and I hear my blood rush in my ears.

“Hi…” she says more quietly than I’ve ever heard her.

“Hi.”

“You… you wanted to talk?”

I close my eyes and let myself fall back onto the couch, relief washing over me.

“Yes, please.”

Maya stays quiet for a beat before breathing out an okay. There is something so fragile but hopeful in her tone that I latch onto it. I force myself to breathe slowly before I answer.

“Can we meet? Talk face to face?”

Another beat.

“I can come over to your place…” she trails off for a moment. “…unless you’d rather meet somewhere public?”

“No! No… no. Please, come over.”

I nearly trip over my own tongue. Her soft chuckle in response makes my ears turn red and I bite my lip to stop myself from grinning like a teenager.

“I’ll be there in thirty.”

I am trembling when I hang up the phone, that small chuckle still echoing in my ears. God, I love that sound. I love it so much, I want to drown in it. An unpleasant heat pools somewhere between my chest and my stomach. The kind that radiates and pulses, with nowhere to go. A chemical fire consuming me from the inside out.

I push myself up from the couch and start pacing. My breathing is shallow as if it tries to stay as far away as possible from that burn. I shake out my limbs and jump up and down on my feet. Movement. I need movement.

Before I can think about it, I let myself drop to my hands and start doing push-ups. My spine straight, my gaze forward, my arms tugged close. By the time I reach the thirties, my biceps are burning, but my breathing is steadier. By fifty, sweat is pearling on my forehead, and my core reminds me that I should do this more often.

I lie down on the floor and press my head against the wooden boards. My breathing is nice and steady again, and I no longer feel a stranger in my own body.

I take another deep inhale when there is a soft knock at the door. Startled, I glance at my phone. Only sixteen minutes have passed—it can’t be her. Can it? I push myself off the floor, my shirt sticking to my body, and pad to the door. My heart suddenly racing again.

My fingers tremble when I turn the lock, and I have to take a grounding breath before opening the door. She has her hands in front of her and her hair frames her pale face. The comfortable-looking sweater she wears has slipped off her shoulder—showing her collarbone—and my eyes are instantly drawn to it. By the time my brain catches up and I lift my gaze, her eyes meet mine. Her pupils are large and her cheeks are flushed. She’s just as nervous.