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He’s waiting for me to say something. He knows I’m not asleep. He knows my breathing patterns as well as I know his, but I can’t answer him. His words and actions from today sliced me to my core, and I don’t have it in me to fight right now. Everything between us feels forced and has for a while now. I’m scared. I’m scared because it’s slowly dawning on me that maybe what’s wrong between us can’t be fixed.
“I just…I just need you to be patient with me right now. Please tell me you understand.”
I don’t. I don’t understand anything. I don’t understand why he can’t just tell me what’s wrong. We’ve never had any secrets or lies between us. At least not big ones. Big ones that matter. I haven’t changed, so that means that something’s changed within himself. And it’s something that he can’t or won’t share with me. But I don’t say anything of that. Instead, I squeeze, tightening my fingers around his, hoping that holding on as tight as I can will be enough.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
BAILEY
HOW ISit possible to feel someone before you see them?
The jingle of the bell is faint against the sound of the pounding rain outside, but I know even before I look that it’s Kallan.
“I’ve closed up early,” he says, his deep voice rumbling over my skin. I give a little shiver, unsure if it’s because of the blast of cold air that accompanied the open door, or something else. Something I don’t want to inspect too closely.
“Yeah, not much happening in weather like this.” I drag my eyes from him, taking in the sheets of water obscuring everything beyond the faint glow of the streetlamp outside my store. “It sure came out of nowhere.”
I don’t relish walking home in this, so I called Quinn earlier to ask if he could take off early and pick me up. When he didn’t answer, I sent him a text, and I’m still waiting.
He looks around, wiping away stray drops from his cheek.
“Where’s Olivia?”
“It’s her day off.”
Which means we’re alone.
“I brought my truck. There’s no way we’re walking in this.”
I bite my lip, hesitating. It’s highly unlikely that Quinn will pull himself away from work long enough to come to fetch me, but I hate this feeling of inconveniencing Kallan.
“I can get a ride-share. I’m sure you’re eager to get home in this weather.”
He doesn’t need to say the words. His look screams that I’m being ridiculous.
*****
His truck is warm and smells like him. I take a deep breath, savoring the scent on my tongue. It’s rich and earthy—freshly cut wood with subtle hints of resin and sap.
It only intensifies when he gets in, slamming his door and shutting out the world outside. I try to ignore it, try to ignore how every breath seems to saturate every single part of my body. It’s an exercise in futility because how does one ignore breathing?
Then stop, Quinn’s voice echoes through my mind. Discomfort tightens my throat, and I try to distract myself by buckling my seatbelt.
From the moment Kallan stepped into my store, something felt different. I don’t know if it’s the fight with Quinn or the weather putting me in a melancholy mood, but whatever it is, being alone with Kallan feels dangerous. And I find myself not caring.
“I don’t want to go home.”
My words are my thoughts given wings, flying out of my mouth without my permission, but it takes only a second to decide that even if I could, I would not take them back. I don’t want to face an empty apartment yet again. I don’t want the voices of strangers on the TV to be my only companions. I want to have a meal with someone who doesn’t look at me with a face painted in irritation. I want to have a conversation with someone that really looks at me. Who smiles at me and treats me as if my words are important.
I just want.
I glance at him, taking in his messy hair, damp from the rain, and the scruff lining his jaw, and it suddenly makes me wonder. What does he look like in the morning just as he wakes up? When his eyes are still heavy-lidded with sleep? Is he one of those people who wakes up quickly, or does he take his time, dragging himself to wakefulness in stages?
“What do you want to do?”
Seconds feel like they drag into minutes when his eyes catch mine, and even the darkness in the truck can’t mute the intensity in them. It creeps under my skin, flustering me, so I look away, forcing my gaze to the side. The rain hasn’t let up. In fact, it’s pouring down even harder, drops ricocheting off the windscreen like bullets, turning the world outside of our little cocoon blurry and chaotic. A true reflection of my life, I muse silently, and I don’t need a mirror to see that the smile tugging at my lips is sardonic.
I press my fingertips against the window, the glass cool under my skin, and trace the erratic paths of the raindrops.
