“He deserved it,” Cal grinned. “He wouldn’t shut up about the car being haunted. So when we hid behind that mausoleum and jumped out?”
“He screamed like a toddler,” I finished, laughing. “He was so fucking over us.”
“We took so many Polaroids that day,” Cal murmured, his gaze dropping to my lips. “Just sitting out there…”
He trailed off. The memory caught him. The way the sun looked. The way we felt like it was us against the world.
“I still have them,” I whispered.
Cal turned his head. Our eyes locked.
And there it was. The glimpse. For a split second, the mask slipped. I saw the raw, gaping wound underneath. He looked at me with such intense, agonizing longing that it knocked the wind out of me. He looked at me like he hated that he still loved me.
“You kept them?” Cal asked, his voice barely audible.
“I kept everything,” I admitted.
Cal realized what he was doing. He realized he was looking at me like he used to, not his ex-colleague. The walls slammed back up, higher and thicker than before.
He ripped his gaze away, staring back at the road. His jaw clenched so hard I saw the muscle feather.
“That’s…” Lena started, oblivious. “That is so vintage. You travel with a Polaroid camera?”
“I did,” I said, my voice shaking.
Cal turned the radio up, drowning us out. He didn’t speak for the rest of the drive. The facade was gone, but in its place was a cold, hard distance. He was disgusted with himself for slipping. I could feel it.
Presley wasn’t kidding. The punishment was indefinite.
For thirty-five days, I lived in a state of suspended animation. November bled into December, bringing with it the biting cold of the Midwest and the Northeast.
We flew together. We drove together. We sat in rental cars in Detroit, Cleveland, and Atlanta.
After the car ride in Philly, Cal shut down completely. He didexactlywhat was asked of him. He was civil. He was professional. But he built a wall between us so thick and cold I felt like I was freezing to death just standing next to him.
He treated me like a coworker he barely knew.
“Ready to go?”
“Pass me my bag.”
“We need to be at the arena by four.”
That was it. No jokes. No old references. No eye contact that lasted longer than a second.
It was agony. Being this close to him, smelling him, hearing his voice, but being unable to reach him. It was worse than the seven years apart. At least then, I could pretend he still cared. Now, I had to watch him not care up close.
Welanded in Indianapolis two days after Christmas. The city was a gray slush, the wind cutting through my jacket.
We went straight to the arena to train. This was the worst part of Presley’s punishment: Mandatory chemistry training.
The arena was empty except for a few rookies running ropes and a trainer leaning against the turnbuckle, looking at his phone.
Cal went to the far corner to tape his wrists. He didn’t look at me.
“Reed!”
I turned. A guy was walking toward me. He was stocky, thick necked, with dark, intense eyes. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him. Just another hungry rookie looking to make a name.
