Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
HAILEY
H is lips feather against my skin, trailing in an arc down my neck. He draws my top to the side and brushes his mouth over my exposed collarbone. Chills race up the arm he caresses with the back of his hand.
“Is this what I’ve been missing?” he whispers against the shell of my ear, and my body erupts with euphoric need. I tip into this feeling. Chasing the high that is Reed Morgan’s touch. The warmth of his breath, the sound of his groan, it’s all I can do not to…
“Earth to Hales.”
The fog lifts from my daydream to reveal an oversized palm waving in front of my face. I blink in rapid succession until the figure comes into focus. I should have known. Ben’s the only one who has ever called me that nickname. It’s burrowing beneath my skin like a tick I can’t get rid of.
“What? Sorry…”
“I lost you there for a second.” He presses the back of his hand to my forehead. “That seems to be happening a lot lately. Are you feeling okay? Is the heat getting to you?”
I don’t know, is it? We have hit record temps over the last few days. Our medic tent is more of a sauna than a protective shade cover at this point. Cooked from the inside out would be the definition of my body right now. I lick my chapped lips.
Water. That’s what I need . Three long pulls and I’ve drained half the bottle. It sloshes as I dump it over my palm and slap the remainder against my cheeks.
“Better?” He smirks.
I nod.
“Well, that’s good, because someone’s here to see you.”
I pitch the empty bottle in the dirt and jolt upright.
He’s back!
But the air deflates from my lungs.
Eleven days. That’s how long I’ve waited for this twitterpated feeling to be spoiled on the wrong person.
A filthy version of Dean waits in the tent opening. He edges closer with his hands in the air. “I come in peace.”
I’d ask him how it was out there, but the sooty outline of eyewear, the sunburnt skin, and the singed facial hair all answer that question for me. It’s been a couple weeks since our failed morning hike. What do I say to him?
“You’re back,” I decide on. More like deadpan, and he cringes.
How am I supposed to pretend I’m happy to see him when nothing has changed between us?
“We are,” he responds. “For R it’s about not trusting that Dean won’t hurt me a second time. Whenever I let someone in I subject myself to that hopeless feeling. I’m choosing to do it with my dad, but I don’t need to with Dean too. Not anymore.
“I’m happy for you, truly. But it doesn’t mean we can pick back up where we left off. We don’t know each other like we used to. You were more than my friend, you were my family, and it felt like that didn’t mean as much to you as it did to me.”
Defeat transforms his features. “So, that’s it then? We just work on this crew together, and I don’t get to talk to you?”
It must show that this reality pains me too because he presses on.
“I can’t find out about your day or”—he cradles his chin and raises an eyebrow—“ask about your crush on the rookie?”
My eyes flare. “I don’t have?—”
“I saw you kiss him.” His lips tilt in a side smile, and for one moment I consider what it would be like to confide in him again. Maybe it would be easy to slip back into that place where we talked about everything. There’s a very real possibility he knows Reed better than I do at this point—what his favorite color is, where he’s from, if this casual thing between us involves anything more than a physical connection. But asking Dean any of those questions would be the very definition of opening up. We’re working together, and that’s it. I need to keep it strictly professional if I want to protect myself.
“You can tell me the real reason you’re waiting in my medic tent,” I finally answer.
He sighs and hikes up his pant leg, exposing a rash of blistered skin that spreads upward from his ankle .
“Poison oak.”
“I’m not the only one,” he says as five other guys waltz into the tent.
“Ben?” I holler, and he materializes. “We need hydrocortisone and Benadryl.”
We treat them with antihistamine by mouth, swelling and itch relief by topical cream, and an empathetic pat to the shoulder before sending them on their less-than-merry way. I feel relieved when Dean finally leaves the tent. It felt like stripping the bandage from a fresh wound having that conversation with him, and it’s a welcome distraction to focus on cleaning up the scattered supplies that litter the table instead.
“Poison oak, huh?” a gravelly voice asks from the doorway.
Jack .
I drop everything but the half-empty bottle of calamine lotion clutched in my fist, giving him my full attention.
Is he favoring one leg or is it my imagination?
“You too?” I ask. “I can help!”
He shakes his head. “I’m fine.”
I rock back and forth, unscrewing and re-screwing the lid.
“Your crew will need cold compresses off and on for the next two weeks. It’ll help with the itching while they wait for the rash to clear.”
He backs up. Tucks his helmet beneath his arm and bobs his head. “I’ll send them here when they need it.” Then he turns on his heels.
“Wait—”
Is that all he came here for? A status update? I thought we shared a moment the last time I saw him. But he’s still acting just as distant.
I straighten, forcing back the building tension. “I can walk you out,” I offer. It’s to the back of his shirt, but I don’t wait to see if he heard me. I follow him. Maybe he doesn’t want to have our conversation in an enclosed space where anyone can walk in. I don’t either.
When he holds open the tent flap, I smile.
As it swings closed with a thwap, he blurts out, “You don’t belong here,” and I drop the open bottle of calamine lotion. It splatters all over the ground, along with my faith in us.