Into Your Arms (Squad Stories #1)(66)

       
         
       
        

"You look like shit," Tobi says as we jog together. Normally she's at the head of the pack and one of the first to finish, but she took one look at my face this morning and started running next to me.

"Thanks," I pant. The air is slicing my lungs, and I think this is one of the last days I'm going to be able to tolerate running outside. I gaze at the gym and wish that I'd run inside today. But I didn't want to be a princess and the first one of us to cave. Maine people are weird. They do all kinds of shit in all kinds of weather. I'm a Texas girl.

At least, I think I am. I don't really know. I haven't done any more searching for Rebecca, and I really need to. I need to just start making little steps. Little tiny steps. I know I'm procrastinating. I know I'm putting it off. I know I'm giving myself excuses. As many times as I told myself I wouldn't get distracted by Rhett, I have gotten distracted by him and I've been using him as an excuse. Tonight. I'll do something tonight. I'll tell Rhett that I'm not coming over, and I'll do it tonight.

After the horrible run where Tobi and I agree to meet tomorrow at the gym for running on the track or treadmills, I run back to my house and take another shower. The stupid dresser drawer sticks again, and I hope Rhett is actually going to follow through on fixing it. I guess I could do it myself. I sigh and just leave it open so I can get my clothes. Hopefully I won't trip over it.

* * *

I don't hear from Rhett the rest of the day, and I'm seriously getting worried. I might go over to his place later to make sure he's not like, dead or something. It isn't like him to be out of touch for this long.

"Where's Rhett?" Tobi asks me as we're stretching out.

"I'm not sure," I say, trying not to look too worried.

Coach calls practice to order and says that Rhett isn't here. He's got some sort of illness. Well, that sounds like a load of shit. I want to go call him immediately and find out what's going on, but Coach is a stickler for her "no phones during practice" rule so I can't until she finally lets us go.

I have to stunt with one of the other guys and it's just . . . wrong. I mean, it's not terrible, but it's not Rhett either. I've gotten so used to being with him that having someone else toss me just feels off. Like I missed a step going down the stairs. It's not a good night for most of us and some of the squad are nursing injuries so Coach lets us go early, shaking her head at us.

"It's not looking good for Nationals, is it?" Tobi says as we walk out to our cars.

"Probably not," I say with a sigh. I'd thought that maybe we had a shot but now it seems so far away. 

"Wonder what happened to your guy," she says.

"No idea. And he's not my guy," I say. At least I don't think he is. It's complicated.

"Whatever. Let me know if you hear from him. And if he needs medical attention, definitely let me know." I give her a thumbs up and get into my car. It's a little angry starting since the temperature has dropped. Fucking Maine. I don't know how people stand it. I think about calling him, but he hasn't answered my texts.

"Oh, fuck it," I say and start my car.

* * *

I arrive at his place and knock on the door. He opens it with surprise and is wearing his typical flannel and jeans. Definitely doesn't look sick. He looks amazing. As always.

"Are you okay?" I ask. "You weren't at practice and you didn't text me back and . . . I was worried about you."

"You were?" he asks as if it's an outrageous statement.

"Yeah. Well, I figured that since you took care of my ass last night, I should probably make sure that you were okay. If we're okay," I mumble. I look up at him and there's a half smile on his face.

He leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms.

"You were worried about me." I shove him out of the way.

"Don't be so smug about it. It's unbecoming." I cringe because that's something my mother says. Or used to say. I'm not even sure if I should call her that anymore.

Rhett chuckles, but there's a tightness around his eyes that I don't like.

"Do you . . . do you need anything?" I'm definitely not good at this. Mia was the caretaker in our friendship. When I had problems, she was always there to help. When she had problems, I would basically hold out a carton of ice cream and have movies ready. I'm not good at the talking or the comforting. It makes me feel weird. Maybe because my parents never did much of it. So I didn't grow up with it. How fucking pathetic is that?

"No, I'm good. But if you want to hang out, I wouldn't say no."