“Yes, I know.” I narrow my eyes at him for a long beat before he finally shrugs.
When the rest of the crew all glance at each other, smirks and lifted brows abound, it clicks.
“Hatley.”
“Hatley,” they all affirm in unison, and I snicker because ofcoursemy best friend showed Emmett who was here before he left. Ofcoursehe didn’t leave Emmett hanging without me, alone and nervous.
It’s what I was planning to do.
I’m gonna hug him next time I see him.
Chapter 45
Emmett
Sixteen times, the tonerings out, and sixteen times Tristen leaves the firehouse.
I’m still not certain what he does when he hops into the ambulance with pinched features and follows the giant red truck out the big bay door, but every time they exit, my stomach knots up.
What if it’s as bad as last night?
Somewhere around the tenth time, I ended up washing dishes and sweeping the floor to keep my mind from going to darker places.
What if he doesn’t come back?
That thought had sent chills so cold down my spine that I froze in the spot. I was still standing there with the broom handle clutched in a death grip when he came back.
It’s almost as bad now, as I watch him down his second energy drink. His knee bounces seemingly uncontrollably, and his sight constantly flicking to his wrist only to curse and tap his phone screen instead.
“Last thirty minutes is the worst,” he mumbles and runs his hands down the dark pants covering his thighs.
“Why?”
There’s a flare to his nostrils when he sucks back a deep, choppy breath.
“End of shift doesn’t matter if that tone rings.”
Something about that feels …heavy.
As if being here for the last twenty-four hours wasn’t enough already, the thought of staying longer makes my skin crawl.
The wear on Tristen is even more evident, too.
I could have gone home. Tristen said he’d take me … but then we got to a point where he couldn’t even sayhellobefore he was being beckoned to the streets of Barren Ridge once more.
He even crashed for a ten-minute nap next to me on the couch, only for the thing to go off again and make him jump out of his skin.
He looks tired. The slice in his cheek is puffy and purplish-yellow. The bags beneath his eyes just as dark.
Somehow … it doesn’t make him any less pretty.
The arm he has propped up on the table twitches like he’s about to check the time on a watch that’s not there all over again, so I cover it with my sleeve.
“Tristen.”
His sight homes in on where we’re touching and he drags in a breath. Hovers his other hand over mine. Flicks his eyes to look at me through his lashes.
It makes my stomach do weird things.
