Which was fine.
Silence with Drew was different from silence with Tristan.
Tristan’s silence had always made me wonder what he was holding back.
Drew’s made me wonder what I was.
My leg ached from too much sand, too much standing, too much emotional warfare in boots. I shifted carefully in the passenger seat, trying not to wince.
Drew noticed anyway.
Of course he did.
“You hurting?”
“No.”
He glanced over.
I looked out the window.
“Texas.”
“I said no.”
“You said no in the voice athletes use when they’re one wrong step from seeing stars.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re dramatic.”
“You limped the last twenty yards to the car.”
“I was making a stylish exit.”
“You were making me want to carry you.”
My pulse tripped.
I kept my face turned toward the window. “You carry me too much.”
“You keep being tiny and injured.”
“I am not tiny.”
“You’re wearing my jersey like a dress, baby.”
“I hate you.”
“Yeah,” he said, too softly. “You keep saying that.”
The rest of the drive went quiet again.
His house was tucked off a clean, tree-lined street just far enough from campus to feel removed from the noise but close enough that I knew the rent had to be ridiculous. It wasn’t some giant mansion. That would have been easier to mock. It was worse than that.
It was tasteful.
Modern California lines, pale stucco, black-framed windows, warm light spilling through glass. Low landscaping. No beer cans in the yard. No folding chairs. No tragic collection of mismatched athlete furniture on the porch.
Inside was even more unfair.
