One bed.
I shouldn’t be here.
I have no clue how sleeping arrangements will work, or if I can sleep at all.
My thoughts spiral, even as my body sinks, heavier with each move, every breath. Exhausted.
“You okay?” Austin asks again.
“Fine,” I snap, more forceful than I mean to be. As if saying it loud enough will make it less of a lie.
My heart flutters inside my chest, hummingbird fast and just as fragile. I shake my head, resting it in my hand. Ashamed at the way I’m falling apart.
“I really should go,” I say under my breath, more internal plea than anything I want to voice to Austin. He’s been so kind, so patient and generous with me today. I should at least thank him. Act better.
My gaze goes to his. Face unreadable. So silent. So damn silent I want to run out into the blizzard and scream.
“Could we maybe just have a normal conversation?” I ask, rubbing my hand over my face.
“Sure,” he says, sitting across from me, arms folded, eyes narrow.
Apparently, I’m supposed to start. “Have you always lived in Stillwater?”
He nods.
What did I expect? Twenty questions it is, then.
“Always been a cowboy, too?”
He shifts uneasily. “Parents no good. Taken in by an old cowboy. Informal adoption.”
I count in my head, trying to decide if these are the most words I’ve ever heard him string together. I may have a new record.
He shovels a forkful of lasagna and chews slowly, thoroughly, staring off into the distance. Then, his eyes find mine. “And you?”
“I’m from Boise. That’s where Trevor, and I live.”
He nods.
God, it makes me want to throw my napkin at him or maybe my fork. Just one reaction. One comment. Mean-spirited or not would feel better than this ridiculous quiet.
I yawn, eyes drooping some more.
“Bedtime?” he grumbles.
My head darts back up. “Just a little tired is all.” My voice sounds far away.
Any normal human being would follow up with a question.So, what’s Boise like? How’d you end up with a loser boyfriend who beats you when he’s drunk?
Something. Anything.
But this nothingness stretches on and on.
And this guy couldn’t be more inaccessible if he tried—a fortress wall with no gate.
“God, I can’t keep my eyes open. I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I murmur, head tipping forward again before I catch myself.
“Long day,” he says, rising from the table. “Done?” he reaches a hand toward my plate.
