22. Lennox #3
The forest was getting darker, shadows lengthening between the trees. I needed to head back before I got completely lost, needed to find the trail and retrace my steps to the cabin where I’d spend another night alone, surrounded by memories of the only person who’d ever made me feel complete.
I should call him.
The thought came from nowhere, desperate and stupid and absolutely terrifying. I should call him and tell him I’d made a mistake, that I’d rather have half of him than none of him, that I was sorry for walking away when I should have stayed and fought.
But what if he didn’t answer? What if he’d already moved on, already found someone else to fill the space I’d vacated? What if he was relieved I’d made it easy for him?
That was the fear that kept me frozen, kept me running through forests instead of picking up my phone. The possibility that I’d been the only one falling, that what felt like love to me had just been convenience to him.
I found the trail as the last light faded from the sky and followed it back toward the resort with my headlamp cutting a narrow beam through the darkness.
My legs were shaking with exhaustion, my lungs still burning from the alcohol and the altitude and the desperate sprint away from my own feelings.
By the time I reached the cabin, I was stumbling with fatigue. I fumbled with the key and nearly dropped it twice before getting the door open. The interior was warm and welcoming, exactly the kind of place where two people could fall in love and plan a future together.
Exactly the kind of place where one person could fall apart completely.
I stood in the middle of the living room, still sweating from my run, and felt the walls close in around me. There was the couch where we’d played that stupid truth-or-dare game.
I started pacing, three steps to the window, pivot, three steps to the kitchen, pivot, repeat. Like a caged animal wearing a path in the floorboards. Like someone who’d lost everything that mattered and had nowhere left to run.
I could see him so clearly, as if six months and hundreds of miles and one devastating conversation hadn’t happened.
Oliver in the bed, half-dressed and gorgeous, looking at me like I was something precious.
Oliver in the shower, steam rising around him like he was some kind of water god.
Oliver at breakfast, laughing at himself in that rare, unguarded way that made my chest tight with affection.
He’d been vulnerable with me in ways he probably never was with anyone else. Told me about his family, his fears, his dreams. He let me see him without all the armor he wore for the rest of the world. Trusted me with the soft parts of himself that he kept hidden from everyone else.
And I’d thrown it away because he’d hesitated for one fucking second when faced with an impossible choice.
God, I’m such an idiot.
I was pacing faster now, practically wearing a groove in the hardwood floor. Six steps to the bedroom door, pivot, six steps to the front door, pivot, repeat. Like movement could somehow undo the last week, could somehow transport me back to a time when I still had him.
He’d never said it outright, but it had been there in every touch, every glance, every moment he’d chosen to spend with me instead of training or studying or doing any of the thousand other things that demanded his attention.
It had been there in the way he’d given me a key to his apartment, in the way he’d cooked for me, in the way he’d held me like I was something worth keeping.
And I walked away.
The regret was a living thing in my chest, clawing at my ribs, making it hard to breathe. I’d been so focused on being hurt, on protecting my pride, that I’d destroyed the best thing that had ever happened to me.
A knock on the door made me jump out of my skin.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I stood frozen in the middle of the living room.
Who the hell would be knocking at this hour?
The resort staff would have called first. Maybe it was Tyler from the bar or the swimmer who’d been trying to catch my eye.
Maybe someone had seen me stumbling around the trails and wanted to check if I was okay.
I crossed to the door on unsteady legs, still shaking from exhaustion and adrenaline and the emotional breakdown I’d been having for the past hour. Whoever it was could probably wait until morning, but something made me reach for the handle anyway.
I opened the door.
And my entire world stopped.
Oliver stood on my doorstep, and he looked like he’d been through hell.
His hair was matted with sweat, sticking to his forehead in dark, wet strands.
His face was streaked with tears, old ones that had dried in salt tracks down his cheeks and fresh ones that caught the porch light like broken glass.
His eyes were red-rimmed and desperate, the kind of devastated that came from crying until you had nothing left.
In his right hand, clutched so tight his knuckles were white, was a gold medal. It caught the light as it swayed from his trembling fist, beautiful and meaningless and somehow obscene in this moment.
He looked wrecked. Absolutely, completely destroyed.
And he was looking at me like I was the only thing that could save him.