Page 109 of Level Up for Love

“Is that what you tell yourself every time you turn down another perfect opportunity so you can stick close to Ramona, just in case she stubs her toe? Just in case she needs someone to hold her hand?”

The whole world gets very, very small. I feel every ounce of my peripheral vision disappear until I’m just staring down a narrow tunnel at Wesley’s eyes, which have suddenly become flinty and hard. I can’t remember standing; I can’t remember him following me, can’t remember how we got nose to nose.

“That’s too far, Wesley. That’s enough,” I say dangerously.

“Is it? Is that what you think?”

“Is that what you think?” I throw back. “That you’re the perfect opportunity?” It’s a nasty thing to say, but I’m too far gone. My rage is like a white-hot sword. “The game designer who just lost his job and is looking for any possible way to squeeze back into the industry that didn’t want him in the first place? The guy who’s about to join a startup that has an even better chance of failing and letting him down than Hurricane ever did? That’s what you want me to bet on?”

“You don’t mean that.” His voice is small, too.

I don’t know what I mean. Before I have time to think it through or consider whether I even want to take it back, I storm back into the house. Wesley doesn’t follow me, and thank god for that. It takes me only five minutes to stuff everything I brought back into my duffel bag. Before long, I’ve grabbed my keys and shoved my feet into my boots, and I’m shouldering my things out to my car.

Wesley’s frozen in shock for a moment, and he angrily—or anxiously—runs a hand through his hair.

“Reagan, don’t. I’m sorry, hold on. Let’s start this over. I didn’t—”

“I don’t want to. I want to go home.”

He swallows. “Don’t go.” He says it like a plea.

I remember when I said the same thing to him, but right now that feels like such a long time ago.

I say nothing and continue to throw everything into my trunk. I suddenly feel very dumb and very silly trying to swipe my windshield clean of snow so I can make my dramatic exit. But in the back of my mind, the refrain run, run, run plays over and over, despite the dull, painful ache that threatens to cleave my chest in two. I try to ignore it; my whole body buzzes with the need to get out of here.

He tries one last time. “It’s staying,” he says, his voice cracking on the last word. “You said as much. Loving is staying.”

I finally look at him. I don’t know what he sees: the angry blotches of heat on my cheeks, or the way tears cloud my eyes, or the line of determination on my forehead. But all I see is him with his shoulders hunched and his head hung low, looking smaller and more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen him. I have to take a long, measured breath before I say, “I know it is.”

I hesitate for a moment with my hand on the car door. But I don’t turn around, and I talk just loud enough for him to hear. “Whoever you ride with—be careful on these roads. They’re hell in the snow.”

I fall into the car, shove the key into the ignition, and don’t look back.