Page 40 of Let the Light Shine Through

“I don’t need you to protect me from anything.”

I close my eyes, holding my breath. This is why we can’t be friends. Roz is deep. His devotion for the people in his life is deep, and the deeper the devotion, the deeper the wounds.

He turns me around to face him, then bends to my eye level. “I’d rather break my back a hundred more times than watch you take another hit like tonight’s.”

“I know.”

“No.” He shakes his head, straightening. “You don’t.”

That sounds serious. Way too serious.

“I’m not the girl you take home to your mom. I’m not the person you get attached to. You’re used to conquering the impossible, so I get it. I understand the challenge you see with me, but I’m no challenge, Roz. I’m the one-night stand you forget to brag to your friends about because by the time morning comes, I’m already long gone.” Usually. Tricky Roz got me to stay the night but that was a one-off. I can’t let it happen again.

I won’t.

“The only memory I leave behind is the kind fever dreams are made of,” I whisper, and speaking low himself, Roz says, “I’m not looking for attachments.” But he might. “I’ve never introduced a girl to my mom.” He deserves the option though. “I don’t kiss and tell.” That’s what they all say at first. “And fevers don’t faze me.”

I eye him a moment longer.

“So, you’re cool with this not going anywhere past a one-time thing? A hook-up?”

Those golden eyes turn murky, but then he nods slowly, saying, “Yeah.”

Dropping my gaze to the floor, I shove the plates and napkins into his chest, telling him to take everything to a table. “I’ll bring out the food when it’s ready.”

Roz’s muscular back disappears through the swinging door, making my ribs hurt worse than they did after the run-in with Mitch.

I grab the forgotten bag of ice, shifting it from hand to hand while staring at the melting cubes inside.

Cool. He says he’s cool, but…for how long? Because everything has a shelf life. Everything and everyone.

“Fuck, I forgot what being full was like,” Roz says, pushing away his crumb-filled plate.

Most professional athletes have to cut calories, so they can maintain a certain weight. Snowboarders aren’t one of them. The serious ones probably eat closer to a triathlete’s diet, not just because of the physical demand, but also the harsh conditions they have to power through. You tread up a steep incline—on snow, in snow, through snow—while wearing multiple layers of clothing, I don’t care who you are, you’re burning calories faster than an incinerator.

Roz has lost weight since he quit snowboarding. He’s lost even more weight since the party at his house. It was obvious as soon as I laid eyes on him. I’d like to know why. Why is he losing weight when he’s no longer hoofing it up summits?

I pinch off the last bite of crust, popping it into my mouth. Roz shifts in his chair and I can tell without looking that his feet are pitching back and forth under the table.

“That, uh, that was the best thing I’ve eaten, probably ever.”

“Ever? You’ve eaten all over.”

“I was hungry.”

“Mmm.”

When he found me at the park earlier, Roz’s voice was better off than the last time I saw him, but not by much. He does have a deep voice, but it’s soothing, seductive. Not scratchy. It only gets scratchy when he’s gone a long time without using it. If he wasn’t talking to anybody and he wasn’t eating enough to get full, what’s he been doing?

“Aren’t you used to it by now though? From working here?”

I shake my head. “Used to it but not sick of it. I love eating here.” Aside from cannoli, my dad’s cooking never gets old to me, but he legit makes the best calzone, even if it hasn’t won him any awards yet. Whenever he uses ricotta for savory dishes, he adds chopped jalapenos to kick up the otherwise bland ingredient. It might be a bit controversial, but it also gets rave reviews, so whatever.

“It probably helps that you’re high.”

“I’m not high,” I scoff. “That shit wasn’t even medical grade.”

Shit. That last part wasn’t really supposed to come out. Everyone knows I have a high tolerance from smoking the good stuff, and I’m sure most people know why, but it’s not really talked about. At least not to my face. On the rare occasion I am offered someone else’s less desirable stash, I smoke as little as I can or avoid it entirely. Life’s too short for bad weed. Seriously.