Chapter 16 Carter
CARTER
Something’s wrong.
I noticed it this morning, but I thought maybe she was just in pain from her ankle. Or tired from yesterday. Or stressed about the data.
But it’s not that.
She won’t look at me.
Won’t talk beyond necessary words.
Won’t let me help her over the rough patches, even though she’s clearly limping.
When I ask if she’s okay, she says “fine” in a voice that means anything but.
And I don’t know what the fuck happened.
Yesterday, we were good. Better than good.
It felt real. It felt like something.
And then this morning, after the cupcake, she went outside for “fresh air” and came back different.
Distant.
Like she’d built a wall while she was out there, and I’m not allowed past it anymore.
“You good?” I call back, checking on her for what feels like the hundredth time.
“I’m fine, Carter. You don’t have to keep asking.”
“I’m just checking—”
“I know. I’m fine. Really.”
She’s not fine.
But clearly, she doesn’t want to talk about it.
So I shut up and keep walking.
By the time we get back to the cabin, it’s nearly dark, and Rhi is limping badly. She tries to hide it, but I can see the way she’s favoring her left leg, the way her face is tight with pain.
“You should rest,” I say, dropping my pack by the door. “I’ll make dinner.”
“I can help—”
“Rhi. Sit down. Rest your ankle.”
“I don’t need—”
“Please.” It comes out harsher than I mean it to. “Just let me do something. Okay?”
She stares at me for a second, and I can see something flicker across her face. Fear? Guilt? I can’t tell.
“Okay,” she says finally. “Thank you.”
She sits on the couch, elevates her ankle, and pulls out her field notebook.
I move around the kitchen, making pasta, trying not to think about how wrong this feels.
How yesterday she would’ve sat at the kitchen table and talked to me while I cooked.
How yesterday she would’ve laughed at my terrible jokes and stolen bites of sauce straight from the pan.
How yesterday she looked at me like I mattered.
Today she won’t even meet my eyes.
And I don’t know how to fix something when I don’t know what’s broken.
Dinner is quiet.
Not the easy kind we’ve developed. The awkward kind. The kind where every clink of a fork sounds too loud and neither of us knows what to say.
“This is good,” Rhi says, not looking up from her plate.
“Thanks.”
More silence.
“How’s your ankle?”
“Better. The compression bandage helped.”
“Good. That’s good.”
Silence.
I’m going insane.
“Rhi, did I do something wrong?”
She looks up, startled. “What? No.”
“Then why are you acting like—” I stop myself. “Never mind. Forget it.”
“Like what?”
“Like you can’t stand being around me.”
“I don’t—” She sets down her fork. “I’m not. I’m just tired. It was a long hike, and my ankle hurts, and I’m exhausted.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
But it’s not okay. We both know it’s not okay.
She finishes eating quickly, washes her dish, and retreats to her room.
It’s barely seven PM.
I sit at the table alone, staring at my half-eaten pasta, trying to figure out what the hell I did to make her run.
I can’t sleep.
I keep replaying the day, trying to figure out where it went wrong.
This morning she was good. Quiet, maybe, but fine.
Then I gave her the cupcake. She seemed touched. Said it was perfect.
Then she went outside.
And when she came back, everything was different.
What happened out there?
Did she realize she doesn’t want this? Doesn’t want me?
Did the cupcake freak her out? Was it too much? Too soon?
Does she regret sleeping with me?
I stare at the ceiling, listening to the fire crackle, and try to convince myself that I’m overthinking it.
That she really is just tired and sore and overwhelmed.
That tomorrow she’ll wake up and things will be normal again.
But I know better.
I’ve seen this before.
This is what it looks like when someone decides you’re too much work.
When they realize that being with the guy with baggage and the fucked-up grief and the tendency to use humor to avoid real feelings isn’t worth the effort.
I knew it would happen eventually.
I just didn’t expect it to hurt this much.