III. The Wallflower
Two weeks later, Ryder Stone decided he was done with walls.
He was standing—precariously—in the corner of the Oakhaven Community Hall. The air in the room was a thick, humid soup of sawdust, cheap beer, overheated bodies, and the aggressive twang of a live fiddle band that was playing "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" slightly too fast.
Ryder leaned heavily on his crutches. His left leg was still encased in the white cast, but the swelling had gone down enough for him to wear a pair of modified jeans that Maya had slit up the seam and pinned with safety pins. He felt like Frankenstein’s monster at a prom.
"You look miserable," Cole said, shouting over the fiddle solo. He was standing next to Ryder, holding a beer. Cole looked relaxed. Happy. He had spent the last hour dancing with Maya, swinging her around the floor with a surprising grace.
"I'm fine," Ryder lied. "Just observing the local wildlife."
"You're not observing," Cole noted, taking a sip of Coors. "You're hunting. She's over by the punch bowl."
Ryder didn't look. He didn't have to. He had tracked Elena’s location from the moment he walked in the door.
She wasn't wearing scrubs. She wasn't wearing the shapeless sweaters she wore at the clinic.
She was wearing a dress. It was simple—navy blue, knee-length, with a neckline that showed the curve of her collarbone. She had done something to her hair, letting it fall in soft, dark waves. She was laughing at something the town sheriff was saying.
She looked radiant. And she looked completely, devastatingly out of his league.
"She looks happy," Ryder muttered, the words tasting like acid.
"She is happy," Cole said. "She has a life, Ryder. A life that doesn't involve waiting for phone calls from Vegas."
Ryder griped the handgrips of his crutches. "I get it, Cole. I'm the villain. You can stop hammering the point."
"I'm just saying," Cole shrugged. "Don't break anything. We just fixed the floor."
Cole walked away, disappearing into the crowd to find his wife.
Ryder stood alone. He felt the weight of the stares. The town knew he was back. They knew he was broken. He could hear the whispers ripple through the room like a current.
There he is. The one who left. Looks like the rodeo finally chewed him up.
Ryder stiffened his spine. Let them look. He was still a Stone.
Then, the music changed.
The fiddle player eased off. The lights dimmed. The band slid into a slow, mournful waltz—something about neon moons and broken hearts.
Couples moved to the floor.
Ryder watched Elena.
A man approached her. It was Paul, the high school science teacher. A nice guy. A safe guy. A guy who probably had a 401k and never broke a bone in his life.
He held out his hand.
Elena smiled. She took it.
They moved to the floor. Paul put his hand on her waist.
Ryder felt a physical kick in his chest. It wasn't pain from the ribs. It was pure, green-eyed, possessive rage.
That's my spot,his brain screamed.That's my hand.
He watched them sway. Paul leaned in and whispered something. Elena threw her head back and laughed.
