His voice is faint when he says, "Get down. Now."
I roll my eyes. When I turn, my foot slips. I reach for the brick of the house, but I completely lose my balance. I'm a damn yoga instructor; balance is my forte.
I fall backward into the bushes. Luckily, it’s a soft blow. The sticks poke me, covering me in a million scratches. There are twigs tangled in my hair, poking my scalp.
The front door opens.
"Riley," he says in a rush. He peers over the railing, his hands bracing on it. "What were you thinking! You could have seriously injured yourself."
He extends a hand, and I grab it.
"You wouldn't answer your damn door.”
He doesn't say anything; all his focus is on pulling me out of these neatly trimmed bushes. My silly little mindshould be paying attention to getting up slowly and carefully, but instead, I'm looking at the bulge of his biceps in his T-Shirt.
August pulls me up, and I practically go flying, shrieking and gripping the banister. I cling to August’s hand. The force he pulled me up in almost caused us to head-butt each other.
For a moment, everything around us is quiet. The grasshoppers disappear, and the cars stop driving. We take in this moment of us together again. I search his eyes, trying to read his thoughts and wondering what I did to make him leave.
Sticks and leaves are stuck on my clothes, but I ignore that when I watch him raise his hand, his thumb brushing my cheekbone. The small touch pulls a sharp gasp from my lips. I want to drown in his touch.
"August, I?—"
"You have a cut on your cheek." He drops his hand. "I have things to clean that up." He turns around and walks back inside the house.
I touch the cut and notice a tiny smear of blood on the tips of my fingers.
The conversation we had at the restaurant seemed cordial. Normal. But right now, he’s coming off cold. I think about everything I’ve done wrong between the two of us. Pushing myself away from him years ago is a good start.
And I think I’ve pushed him away all over again.
THIRTY-SIX
RILEY
I'm back in August's living room, and I don’t know exactly what to do. I've seen him like this before. Standoffish. Quiet. Not only is he dealing with family stuff and the shop, but I’ve piled on top of that.
The house is so quiet, I can hear the wind blowing outside. The stinging on my hands—red and blotchy with scratches all over—is hitting me.
I feel around my head and pull out a couple of the twigs from my hair. The sound of drawers opening and closing comes from down the hall. August doesn't look at me when he returns. Instead, he walks past me and places everything he has on the wooden coffee table.
“Are you gonna sit down?”
“August—”
“Riley—just please sit down so I can clean you up.” He sits on the couch and plays around with cotton balls, Band-Aids, and peroxide.
My mouth is suddenly dry, and all the confrontational energy that was with me outside in front of the door has disappeared. It blew away the minute my foot went over theline and into the house. I sit on the cushion next to him and stay quiet.
August holds out his hand, waiting for me to place mine in his. When I do, my eyes close the moment he holds on. Everything around me slows down: my breathing, my heartbeat, my nerves.
"Shit.” The burning sensation on my hand is sharp and deep.
He rubs a small cotton ball on the red, irritated cut on my palm. "Sorry.”
I focus on his hand cleaning the cut and then chance it when I glance at him. There’s zero emotion on his face. Not even concentration. He’s still and silent when he switches the dirty cotton for a clean one.
"August.”
