Page 136 of The Backup Plan

I stare at her for a few minutes as the day runs through my mind. The highs. The lows. The knowing how thin the line really is.

I crawl into bed and pull her into me, needing to hold on to something. She snuggles into me, her lips pressed under my jaw, her hand flat on my heart. She exhales softly and curls her fingers into my shirt.

“I don’t want to see you broken,” she murmurs, half-asleep.

I press a kiss to her hair. She did see how broken Mark was tonight. She knows how close the line really is.

“You won’t,” I whisper back. “Besides, you fix broken people.”

Emery

Two days.

That’s how long I’ve managed to avoid him.

I’ve been busy. Meetings have been stacked back-to-back, I’ve had reports to finish, my proposal to write, as well as athletes to give second opinions on. The being busy part hasn’t been a lie, but it’s not the entire truth either.

The truth is, every time I see Lucas across the facility, my chest constricts so much it feels like it might implode.

Our morning runs have been silent. Our evenings have been spent apart due to team meetings.

It’s been helpful.

It’s been hell.

What’s made it even worse is hearing the devastation in Mark’s voice the other night. Listening to the two of them talk while knowing I’d have to deliver a similar blow sooner than later.

But I gave myself today as a deadline. And being that it’s almost five p.m., I can’t push it any longer.

This has to be done here at work, because I need to keep it professional. Need to keep it separate from our personal lives.

I need to keep things where they should be kept.

When he walks into my office with his smile bright, my heart sinks straight to my feet.

“I’ve been summoned by the famous Dr. Porter,” he says playfully, humor lighting up his eyes. “Is this a formal thing?” He sits down in the chair in front of my desk. “Do I need to sit up straight so I get a lollipop for being good when we’re done?” He waggles his eyebrows and then lowers his voice. “You gonna put your glasses on and play hot doctor with me?” He laughs but then it fades when he sees that I’m not reacting.

I can’t do it.

I can’t pretend to play along when I feel like I’ve been eaten from the inside out for the past two days.

I turn my back on him and pretend to fiddle with something on the credenza behind my desk to summon my courage.

C’mon, Em. You can’t put this off any longer.

When I turn around though, the smile fades from his face the second he really looks at me. Concern etches in the lines of his expression.

“Oh,” he says quietly. Defensively. “Okay. What is it?”

Without prompting, he gets up and shuts the door behind him but stands with his hand on the handle and his back to me for a second. His shoulders rise and fall as if he’s preparing himself for whatever my expression has suggested.

When he turns back around, his face is stoic as his eyes meet mine. “What’s wrong with my shoulder?” he asks. There is no accusation in his voice. No anger. Just a certainty I wish weren’t there.

I take a seat and grip the arms of my chair because if I don’t anchor myself, I’ll reach for him, and I can’t do that.

Not because of what I have to do.

Not because of where we are.