I dig my boots into the grass and spin around in my dress. I put it on this morning because it’s the only thing in my closet that brings me any joy right now. It’s delicate and fun, with applique glitter stars, moons, and flowers. It makes me feel like a witch, and it blows in the morning breeze. But all that joy is gone, and now I’m just annoyed.
“Where the hell are you guys?” I holler, looking around to see if they’re on the benches or if the lights of the locker room are on. “This isreallyfucking hilarious, you guys! Some of us have work!”Maybe I read the text wrong?I pat myself down and curse myself for leaving my phone in the Bronco. “You’re a fucking idiot,” I snap and turn to walk back to the parking lot.
“Are you arguing withyourself?” His voice is low, sending a shiver down my spine. “That’s a new low.”
“Don’t start,” I huff, trying to ignore the profound effect he has on me as I burn a hole in the side of the locker room building. “You’ll ruin the day.” I do my best to hide the shake in my voice.
“Hellcat,” he says, begging me to turn around.
“Go away,” I whisper, my eyes trained on the parking lot as I try to decide if I want to walk away. “This is a mean trick, and now I have to be mad at youandthe girls.”
“It’s not mean,” he fights gently. “Don’t be mad at them. I asked for help.”
I drop my head, and silence fills the gaps between our breathing. I have a million questions I want to ask him, but I don’t know where to start, and all of them feel childish.
Most I know the answer to.
You told him to do something about it, and he did. You don’t get to complain now.
“Rhea,” he says, like he can read my mind, and at this point, he probably can. “You said that out loud,” he whispers.
I really need to get this inner monologue shit under control.
“It’s the truth,” I shrug.
“It is,” he agrees, “but you can complain about it.”
“No.” I shake my head. “It’s a situation I created. I have to deal with what comes with that.”
“So life kicks you around, and you just keep your mouth shut about it, doesn’t sound very fair,” he says, his voice gets closer, and I know he’s coming toward me, but I can’t figure out how to make my feet move.
“Complaining has never once solved a problem,” I huff, picking at one of the silver stars.
“It’s not about solving the problem,” Brighton groans. “It’s about acknowledging the hurt.”
“Therapy brainwashed you,” I snort, because I can’t pinpoint what I’m feeling, and I’m a second away from crying. “I have no reason to be hurt,” I say. “Roommates help each other. You helped me when I needed it, and I helped you. It’s fine.”
“You’ve never once said it’s fine, and it’s meant that, Rhea Drake. Yell at me, tell me all the reasons you hate me, give me something to go on here.”
“I don’t hate you,” I respond. Iprobably couldn’t even if I tried. That’s the problem.
“So you just feel nothing at all? Completely disconnected?” he asks.
No, Brighton, my head is spinning, my hands are sweaty, my heart is racing, and I want to cry every time you open your mouth.
“We’re friends, Brighton. I’m glad you're home, but I have to get to work,” I say. He groans, a few choice swear words leave his lips, and I can picture the scowl on his handsome face.
“Will you stop for two seconds?” he asks, but I shake my head no and force my feet to start moving.
I can hear him thinking, trying to find an avenue that might help him keep talking to me, but he stops following me altogether.Good.
When the music starts, my brain doesn’t know what to do with itself.
You fucking asshole.
I turn around, taking him in, and try not to cry. He feels sturdy again; the small man from the night I last saw him is gone, replaced with the man I’ve been missing so much. His hair is shorter, but the stubborn strand still leans gently against his forehead, begging to be tugged. And he’s wearing a suit, a fully tailored dark suit that I’ve never seen before, but it rises and falls with his nervous breathing in the most beautiful way. His blue eyes are alive again, and it makes me exhale quietly.
"You've got to be kidding me," I hiss.
