Into Your Arms (Squad Stories #1)(79)

She gives me a look like I'm being supremely dense. Maybe I am. But I can't help it right now. I've never been good at all of this stuff.

"Really, Frey? Really?!" I groan and fall into her lap. She laughs.

"You poor thing. I'm not jealous of this at all. This is why I stay away from all guys. Except for the ones that I meet and then don't ever see again." Yes, Tobi has a habit of doing that whenever she's feeling a little frisky. I couldn't do it, but I guess it works for her so, whatever. As long as it works, I'm no one to judge.

"What do I doooo?" I say, my voice muffled. She pulls my hair back and tucks it behind my ear.

"Tell him. Tell him you love him. Because he does and then you can get over yourselves and be disgusting and happy and shit and make the rest of us want to vomit. Sound good?" No. I mean, I guess the being disgusting and happy part does, but how do I get to that part without doing the telling and the talking and the awkward stuff? Is there a fast-forward button?

"Do I have to?" I say.

"No. You don't have to do anything. But I think you'll regret it if you don't. And you need to fix things, because we can't go to Nationals without you two on the top of your game."

"Yeah, that's true."

"Okay, then. So get off your ass, take a damn shower, put on some eyeliner, and deal with it. You're a grown-ass woman. Act like it." Tobi is good at the pep talks, but she also shoves me off her lap and then yanks me up. She's got strength and height on her side, so I end up on my feet.



       
         
       
        

"Get your shit together," she says, squeezing my hands.

* * *

Monday morning I'm flipping out. I couldn't sleep at all last night, so I probably look like absolute crap, but at least I showered and brushed my hair and am wearing clean clothes. That's something.

I'm so stressed that I get to the gym nearly a half hour before anyone else. It's like four-thirty in the fucking morning or night or whichever, and I'm one of only three people on the treadmills. I figure if I get running I can get it over with quicker, so I hop on a treadmill and start. I keep myself aware of the two empty treadmills on either side of me and sure enough, someone takes the one on my right. I hit a few buttons on the treadmill and slow to a walk.

"Hey," I finally say, my voice shaking. I'm gonna blame it on the running if anyone asks.

"Hey," he says carefully, turning the treadmill on to the same speed so he's also walking. I'm staring straight ahead, and I can't turn and look at him yet. But I feel him next to me and part of me wants to throw myself at him, but that would lead to injury for both of us.

"We should probably talk," I finally say.

"Probably." He's being cautious and I wonder what his expression is. But I'm not looking. I will not look at him. I can't look at him because looking at his face scrambles my brain and makes words hard.

"Are you okay?" His voice is tight and it's like we're acquaintances and not people who have fucked repeatedly. "I've tried to talk to you all week and you've iced me out. I'm sorry, Freya."

"I know." We're both walking and he ramps up the treadmill, so I do the same. I hate running and talking but if this is the way we have to do it, this is the way we have to do it.

"I was really worried about you. You scared the fuck out of me. Are your hands and knees okay?" I nod, which almost throws me off balance. Use your words, Freya.

"They're fine," I say, even though I've got some sexy, sexy scabs I'm working on right now. Everyone's been asking me what happened to my hands, and I just keep telling them I was drunk. It's easier that way. And more acceptable.

"I was really worried about you," he says again. "And I just wanted to come over so I could see if you were okay, or as okay as you could be and apologize. Or at least start a long string of apologies that I'll probably be making for the rest of my life, even if you're not around to hear them."

I have to slow the treadmill again. I can't run and process this at the same time. Too much for my brain to handle.

"I'm sorry too," I say. Those are the words that have been stuck in my throat for a week. "I didn't know how to handle things and I handled them badly. I honestly don't know how I could have done it differently, but I think bailing out of your truck was probably a bad idea." I almost laugh, but I just can't. 

"I didn't mean for it to end up like that. I should have thought of you and not about what I would have wanted. I should have talked to you about it and I didn't and I'm so sorry that I fucked up so badly." Now I have to turn the treadmill off. I do and finally turn to him.