Chapter 33
Emmett
There’s a fluffiness to his hair that doesn’t make sense with how many times he’s run his hands through it, and the sweat that’s marking his temples.
There’s a layer of dirt that’s making his skin seem like it has deeper shadows than normal, and his nails are stained black again even though he washed them before we sat down.
For the last six days, we’ve done exactly this.
Tristen comes home and wanders through the house until he either finds me or ends up in the bathroom.
The pipes are loud enough that I know he showers when he goes in there and sometimes, he takes forever.
I count every time to see how long it takes him to come to Hatley’s bedroom.
To come find me bundled under the covers of his best friend’s bed.
Sometimes he whispers to me about his night and shares my pillow, keeping his face close enough that the nightlight casts shadows over his eyes.
Others, he sighs really deep and falls asleep almost instantly.
I’m not sure which one is better.
But then he wakes up and brings me to the track. We practice riding together, and then he lets me back on the bike even though I can’t seem to stop grinding the gears. Flooding the engine. Tipping it.
The bruise on my calf aches, but Tristen said it’ll be okay. I didn’t let him lift my pantleg to get a full look, but he felt around and though it hurt, I think he’s right.
I wanted to kiss him when he looked up at me from the dirt track, that smile tipping his lips at the corners, but I didn’t.
His eyes screamed it. That he wanted to.
I don’t understand why.
But he didn’t kiss me. Nor has he kissed me since that first time almost a week ago.
And then he brought me here, where Blu is currently staring at me and asking what I want to eat.
I look through my lashes at Tristen who smiles, and it makes my stomach cramp.
I don’t really want to eat, but he frowns when I don’t.
“Eggs?” I say quietly and Blu scribbles on her pad of paper.
“Full breakfast. Got it.”
“No, I—”
Auburn hair flips behind her as she walks away, and I slip down in my seat.
“I don’t wanna keep wasting it.”
Tristen’s smile is undeterred, and it aggravates me.
“We can take what you don’t eat home, bubs. No worries.”
He pulls out a phone and sets it on the table between us.
“Aren’t people supposed to sit opposite of each other?” I look around the diner and note the few tables where there’s a couple or a group of people and all of them are sitting on each side or spread out.
“What, you don’t like me sitting next to you?”
“No, I—” I sigh, “never mind.”
Tristen’s lips quirk and his sight drops back down to the phone on the table. “It’s okay to like it. I do.”
The arms I have wrapped around my middle tighten.
I shouldn’t.
“What’s your favorite song?”
I blink, my face pinching as my brows meet.
“I … don’t have one.”
His head snaps my way so fast that I hear it pop. “Ow. Okay. What?”
A sound that seems similar to the snorts I’ve heard from Tristen escapes my throat and I clear it away.
“I’ve never really listened to music much. I like what you play sometimes?” That last part comes out more like a question and my face goes hot.
I’m not sure that I really like the songs themselves. I don’t pay much attention to the beats or the words.
But Tristen does.
“Oh, no. We’re gonna have to fix that. You need at least one favorite song. Like your song. The one you feel in your bones.”
Blu brings out plates and piles them on the table in front of us, but that doesn’t stop Tristen from asking a million rapid-fire questions that go unanswered.
He seems … off.
I don’t know if I can place what’s wrong because he’s smiling, but he’s eating and talking. Jumbling his thoughts when he speaks. Ignoring Blu even though she’s arching a brow at him.
“Thank you,” she emphasizes to him, and he snaps her direction.
“Thanks, babe. You got any cherry pie?”
Her gaze swings to me. “You just gonna let him call me babe like that in front of you?”
I shrink back.
Tristen’s brows slam down. “He’s got his own name, Blu.”
She scoffs and tucks her tray under her arm. “I didn’t hear a denial in there, Ten. You got something you wanna tell me? Something about that closet you like to hide in?”
He makes that snorting noise and picks up his fork.
“None ya.”
Painted lips tip at the corner, and something sparkles in her eyes. “Sure thing, babe. Enjoy the cyanide.”
My stomach twists up, and I stare down at the plate of eggs and bacon in front of me.
I have no idea what just happened.
“Did it bother you?”
I look sidelong at Tristen and poke at the yellow blob on the plate in front of me with the tines of my fork.
His brows are scrunched up tight and his eyes look … worried?
I shrug and scoop up a bite even though my stomach twists up. “You say a lot of things.”
“I won’t call her that anymore,” he says with such intention that I shrink back even more.
Why did I leave my hood down again?
I reach up and pull it into place.
“It’s okay,” I whisper and tuck my fingers inside my sleeves.
There’s a chip on the edge of the ceramic plate that holds my food, a spot where the white and shiny is disturbed by the muted inside. It looks like it would be rough if I touched it. Like a fine sandpaper.
Would it take off skin?
“Hey.”
I feel the touch coming for my chin before he even makes contact with the rough pad of his finger, the tingling that precedes it like a static charge just waiting to shock me.
It makes me flinch the tiniest bit. Small enough that I’m not sure Tristen caught it when he pulls ever so slightly, turning my face toward him.
“Are you mad?”
“No,” I whisper even though I wanna say yes. And that shocks me more than his touch does.
What the fuck do I have to be mad about?
The spot on my chin where we connect burns.
“Emmett.”
My shoulders lift with my inhale.
“What?”
His lips thin. “I won’t.”
That look, the one that’s all scrunched brows and darkened eyes stares back at me, and my stomach twists up.
“O-okay.”
A long, loaded beat passes before he finally tips his chin in a nod and releases me. “Finish up. We can go back to the track after this.”
“But don’t you have to work tonight?”
His nod is stiff as he shovels another bite between his lips.
He doesn’t say another word after that. Not even as he finishes his meal and passed money to Blu, who returns it with a to-go bag.
“You’re being weird,” I say as we load into the truck, Betsy he calls it, and he turns over the engine.
“Sorry,” he mutters back distracted and gets us onto the street.
I stare at his profile the whole way back to the track, waiting for him to respond with something or make a quip like normal.
It makes me jittery that he doesn’t.
It’s not until we finally park in the normal spot, the lot filled with more cars and bikes than I’m used to, when he finally turns to me.
“You ready for a few more laps?”
I tilt my head and tighten my grip on my sleeves.
“Yeah. Okay.”
I’m not sure what else to say. Or do.
So instead, I hope like hell the rumble of engines and the smell of fuel knock him out of whatever funk he’s suddenly dipped into, and hop out of the truck.