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Only that it’s bad.
Really bad.
Which isn’t my problem.
I’m not a heartless bitch.
But he’s not my boyfriend.
He’s not even my friend really.
I need space.
We both need space.
I can’t help him here.
I have to pull back.
I suck a breath though my teeth. Force an exhale through my nose.
I like him too much.
I want more.
I want to comfort him in whatever this is.
He turns back to me.
His eyes find mine.
His lip corners turn down.
It’s all over his expression.
This isn’t okay.
Whatever is happening, it’s not okay.
I don’t ask.
I get out of the car. Sling my backpack over my shoulder. Adjust my leggings.
He sits there on his cell.
Not talking.
Listening.
It’s not like Wes.
He’s a good listener, sure, but he’s loud. Vibrant. Demanding.
Right now…
All the life is fleeing his body at once.
I shift my weight between my legs. Fish my keys from my front pocket.
My apartment is ten feet away.
I don’t have to stay there. I can hide inside the cool air-conditioning. I can shower away today. Seek comfort in my favorite movie.
But I don’t.
I watch until he hangs up the phone.
He gets out of the car. Stays pressed against the door.
“Hey.” I pull my arm over my chest reflexively. “Are you…”
“I have to go.”
“Oh.” I force myself to unpeel my arms. To press my hands to my sides. “What happened?”
“My mom got in an accident.”
“I’m sorry.”
“She was… it doesn’t matter.”
“But…”
His blue eyes are filled with hurt.
And apology.
This is it.
He’s going to say something about how we’re over.
About how he’ll never be my boyfriend.
About how I’m delusional thinking someone like Wes would ever want to be my boyfriend.
“Wes, I…” I don’t know what to say. Only that I want to hold him. To fix whatever this is. I hate that he’s hurting. I hate that I hate that he’s hurting. I’m too fucking invested.
It hurts.
It aches.
It’s like when Owen hurts.
His pain is my pain.
“You were right.” His voice is flat. Lifeless. “We need a few days.”
“Yeah. Sure. Will you…” What the hell do I offer here? “Will you be okay?”
“Sure.” He offers me a smile, but it’s empty.
He needs someone.
Maybe he needs me.
But if he can’t admit that, if he doesn’t see it—
Owen was right.
I can’t fall in love with him unless I have a safe place to land.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Wes
Chase is sitting in a hospital chair, arms folded, eyes closed, head resting against the blue-grey wall.
He looks hurt and helpless.
It’s weird.
Completely unlike him.
Chase has always been the strong one. He’s steady. Ice cold.
He doesn’t give into bait. When someone pushes, he holds his ground.
Right now…
Fuck, it’s bad.
It’s so fucking bad.
He stirs as I approach.
His eyes blink open. His gaze shifts to the shiny tile floor. The muted wall. The fluorescent lights shining from the ceiling.
To me.
For a second, vulnerability streaks his expression.
Then he nods, and it’s gone.
He’s back to the icy brother I know so well.
“What time is it?” he asks.
“Four.” I slide my hands into my pockets. Try to think up something to say. Find nothing.
Well, nothing worth verbalizing.
Our mom is a piece of shit sometimes goes without saying.
“How’s Quinn?” His voice is flat. Even. That usual nothing will ever rattle me tone.
I shrug like I don’t care.
His eyes narrow. He stares at me, looking for cracks. “Don’t you do dates on Mondays?”
“Yeah.” God dammit, I need to stop telling Griffin shit. He’s not keeping his mouth shut the way he usually does.
“And…” Chase looks me up and down, assessing my outfit, my posture, my expression. “You two go on a hike or something?”
“Yeah.”
“And…”
“We got into a fight.”
He nods oh, of course. “You do something stupid?”
“Not really the time to talk about this.”
He shakes his head of course it is. “You like her, don’t you?”
Fuck, I’m not having this conversation.
He stares back at me, waiting for a response.
Not happening.
Not going there.
Not with him.
New topic. It’s a horrible topic, but it’s not like I can avoid it. “Where’s Mom?”
He shakes his head if that’s how you want to do it, fine then he motions to the room down the hall. “She’s asleep.”
“Is she okay?” My chest gets heavy. I want her to be okay. But there’s this other part of me. One that just wants it to be over.
“Yeah. The drunk one always is.”
“The other driver?”
“Looks like it.” His gaze shifts to the room. “Too soon to say.”
I swallow hard. I should be happy.
She’s alive.
She didn’t crash into a tree and die in a fiery explosion.
She didn’t drink herself to death.
Today.
At the moment, it’s so fucking obvious.
Maybe she isn’t dead today, but she might be tomorrow, or next week, or next month.
Chase gave me this lecture when it was Hunter, but I never saw it.
I thought Hunter liked to party.
That he neglected his limits.
That he could stop anytime he wanted.
And why would he want to stop?
Why would anyone want to stop for long enough for their thoughts to catch up with them?
