As I’m pulling out the disposable cutlery, Tytus sidles up beside me.
With his focus set on the sweets spread out in front of us, he crosses his arms over his chest. “I haven’t seen her or even talked to her since the hospital.”
The air whooshes out of my lungs and my heart sinks into the pit of my stomach.
“I hate to admit it,” I tell him, “but I haven’t seen or heard from her either.”
My already broken heart cracks further as the reality of our shared confessions sinks in.
I’m bleeding out, desperate to help, and just so fucking sad it’s come to this.
For him.
For her.
For all of us, honestly.
Because if Sawyer’s ignoring my texts, avoiding Mercer at all costs, and hasn’t even talked to Tytus in over two weeks—who’s she leaning on, and who’s actually supporting our girl?
Chapter eighteen
Tytus
Nineteen days after the incident, the doctors and trainers have finally released me to attend class and limited practices. The way everyone keeps emphasizing over and over again that I need to rest has required an extreme amount of patience.
I fucking get it.
I fucking feel it.
I dutifully served the two full weeks of bed rest, and I’m following all lift restrictions and avoiding the stairs as much as possible. I’m onlynotin pain if I’m lying on my right side with my legs tucked up, and only after I’ve taken the prescription painpills Atty keeps feeding me. Even sitting up for more than a few minutes tugs at the healing incisions and strains my intercostal muscles in a way that makes it hard to breathe.
Everyone around me needs to chill the fuck out. I feel too damn shitty to even consider pushing myself.
Now that I’m returning to practice, Coach insisted I skip morning skates to get more sleep, but I’ll attend each afternoon, unless I’m not feeling up for it.
Despite the lingering pain, I’m determined to get back to class.
If nothing else so I can see Sawyer.
Atty swears she’s fine. He had dinner with her twice last week. Without me. And he assures me they text daily.
But his version of “fine” isn’t good enough for me.
This morning, I finally broke down and texted her. Thought I’d give her a heads-up that I’d be in class today and figured she may want to mention my intentions to the professor, too.
But she hasn’t answered.
It’s taking every ounce of willpower in me, but I didn’t call or swing by her dorm on my way to class.
I push open the door to the lecture hall, that move alone pulling at my injuries and making me grimace.
I scan the space, muscles tensing. I showed up earlier than usual, not wanting to have a full audience when I came through these doors for the first time since the incident.
The room is already half full, so I wouldn’t say I succeeded.
Showing up early also helps ensure I snag my usual seat, right next to Sawyer. Just in case anyone else has tried to take my place since I’ve been gone.
Avoiding the stray stares and hushed whispers, I amble toward the front row.
