What he doesn’t know is that I’m still lying about my pain. Myinjured knee doesn’t hurt as bad as it did a month ago, but I’m still doing everything I can to leave town as soon as possible.
I wait a beat. Two beats, expecting him to say something – like I can go back to Utah and carry on with my recovery over there – except that I’m just greeted with silence. Typical. Coach Wilson checks in once a week, but our conversations aren’t particularly long or interesting. I update him on my status, and he asks questions to which he already knows the answers, since he’s talking with both Joe and my physiotherapist on a daily basis.
“How’s everyone?” I ask. The thought of my teammates being able to practice while I’m still forbidden to makes my stomach twist with sour irritation. I could have not asked the question, but the last thing I want is for Coach to think that I’m still a selfish asshole who doesn’t care about anyone but myself.
“Good. Working hard before the Christmas break.”
I nod, swallowing the bitter taste coating my tongue. “That’s great.”
“Isn’t it? Alright, I have to go, but I’m glad I was able to catch you. I’ll call you next week.”
Without giving me a chance to reply, he hangs up, and I inhale sharply – I need to rein in my frustration. I wish Coach would be more encouraging, especially if he knows that I’m making some major progress. I might not be entirely truthful about my pain, but I think I’ve changed as a person.
Sometimes, I hate being someone who constantly needs validation to carry on, because this makes me push myself to my limits. Makes me need to attain perfection. And I can’t lose control, or else I’ll fuck up everything – again.
Being an overachiever is tough on my hardest days. Sometimes, I feel as though being perfect is the only way to be loved, but wanting to achieve this goal has cost me a lot – hence why I’m here in the first place.
I want to tell Alara about this – what I’m feeling. I know she’ll see me. Listen to me. Hear me. She’ll give me the reassurance I’m yearning for. But she’d be so angry at me if she found out that I still can’t bring myself to be honest with Dr Ellis.
Walking inside Fleur de Sel, I spot Jordan sitting at a table for two by the window. This is supposed to be a business meeting during which we’ll negotiate some terms and conditions for our deal, as I’ve agreed to be the face of his line, but I know we’ll spend more time stuffing ourselves with exquisite fondue than talking about work.
This place is as welcoming as I remember, with tables scattered around the space and a beautiful canvas of a Swiss landscape hung on the farthest wall of the restaurant.
“Is that Diego Ramirez?” Luc, the owner, exclaims joyfully. He walks over to me with his arms wide open and pulls me in for a warm embrace.
“Damn, Luc. You look good as hell. What’s the secret to looking like you’re still thirty?” Seriously, the guy must be in his fifties, but I feel like he hasn’t aged one bit.
He laughs heartily – a sound I love hearing from others – and gives me a wink. “Fondue is the key to everything.”
“Ah, explains it all.” We pull apart, his grip still tight around my shoulder – a small, encouraging gesture that warms my chest.
“I was wondering when you’d come eat at your favorite restaurant. You’ve been back at Blue Ridge for almost two months and you’re only stepping foot inside now?”
“Sorry,” I say sheepishly, scratching the back of my head. “I’ve been busy.”
He pats me on the back and chuckles. “I’m teasing you. You’re meeting with Jordan, yes? You should stop by for a drink and tell me all about your recovery and what you’ve been up to.”
As he leads me to the back of the restaurant that’s alreadyalmost full, I smile. My dad and him used to be close friends back in the day. My sisters and I consider him the uncle we never had, since both my parents are only children.
“I’d love that. Jordan and I can hang out until closing time, if you want us to have a drink together when your customers are gone.”
Luc grins. “I was hoping you’d say that. Sounds good. Sophie will take your orders in a bit.”
I’m seated across from Jordan a few moments later, after greeting him with a fist-bump. He’s on the phone with his assistant, but the guilty look on his face tells me he’ll be done soon.
While I take my jacket off, I look at the people passing by on the other side of the window. Two women walk by and abruptly halt as they realize they know each other. I can hear their delighted laughter and see their growing smiles as they step aside to catch up. It’s during moments like these, when I see how serene and happy people are, that I wonder why I left this town in the first place. I was so adamant on leaving, on building my life elsewhere and making a name for myself all around the world, that I completely forgot what it was like to live in Blue Ridge Springs.
Everyone knows everyone. Everyone cares for everyone, even if they barely know each other.
It’s good to be back here – a breath of fresh air, with a familiarity that’s slowly luring me back in.
I’ve barely thought of my apartment in Utah.
I haven’t heard from my so-called friends from there, either. As if they don’t care about my recovery. As if they don’t care about me at all.
A silhouette catches my eye on the sidewalk across the street, causing my stupid heart to stall. Alara comes into view as she walks out of the hair salon, looking as ethereal as ever. But whenshe comes to a stop as a man intercepts her, I frown, especially when she smiles widely and pulls him into a hug.
A friendly hug, yes. But the smile she’s given him? Hell no. It’s the smile reserved forme.
