Chapter 10
Chapter ten
Derail
Carrson
I stand there for what feels like an hour. It’s probably five minutes, staring at the spot she usually occupies.
It’s…empty.
The dirt there is packed down, swept clean of leaves. The imprint of her blanket is still visible on the almost frozen ground.
The silence is wrong. The space too big.
A cold wind cuts through the clearing, hard enough to bite.
I tell myself that’s why I shiver. Not the way my thoughts scatter, jumping ahead, running through possibilities I don’t want to consider.
None of them ending anywhere good. I clamp down on it.
Force my thoughts back into order, shoving them into a more rational pattern. Something I can tolerate.
She’s not here.
That’s good, right? I wanted her gone. I hated it, having her attention on me, the constant hum of her music drifting through the trees, the way her hair caught the light, red turning to gold when she moved.
The way she always looked up the second I stepped into the clearing.
Like she’d been waiting for me.
It’s been awful having her invade my space. Acting like she belongs, like she has any right to be here.
Now she’s gone, but why? Where is she?
Maybe she’s late. Maybe she finally got bored. Maybe she decided she had better things to do than sit out here every day, waiting for me to acknowledge her existence.
It would make sense. It would be easier.
I don’t believe it.
My gaze drags over the clearing again. Searching for what I missed. Some sign. Some explanation.
Nothing.
Just the empty space where she should be. I exhale, irritation covering other, less well-defined emotions.
At this point, I’ve stopped trying to wait her out. Becky doesn’t quit. That’s the one thing I’ve learned about her. If she decides something matters, she keeps at it, as if she can wear the world down into giving her what she wants.
She keeps showing up.
Day after day…until now.
I need to do something. No. I should stay here.
The words are familiar, ones I’ve relied on for years. Structure. Predictability. Distance. Yeah, that’s it. Someone else can deal with it. Not me.
And yet…
I stand there, waiting for the feeling to pass, for the impulse to step in to fade the way it should. I drag a hand through my hair.
“This is stupid,” I mutter under my breath.
She’s not my responsibility. Not my problem.
My weight shifts forward before I can stop it. My feet move, too fast for my mind to catch up. My stride lengthens, cutting through the trees toward her dorm, each step faster than the last.
If I think about it, I might stop.
So I don’t think.
I don’t even try.
This is going to completely derail my workout.