8. Harper
HARPER
Why is he being so quiet? I walked into the gym this morning in utter silence. No music, no soft grunts that sound far too sexual as Colton did back squats, the barbell resting across his very covered-up back.
Since when does he wear shirts? Just plain rude.
I just stood there, waiting for him to greet me or make some inappropriate joke about my outfit or hair or something. Anything. Instead, I get a head nod.
A fucking head nod.
Like I was some gym bro he picks up heavy shit with. Is he having a bad morning? I don’t know how he could be, considering how early it is. I doubt his morning started with anything other than getting up and driving here.
He wasn’t even this quiet the morning his car wouldn’t start, and he had to get a ride.
I made sure not to do any real damage to the car, of course.
But I wanted a morning to myself. I thought I wanted a morning to myself.
And then five minutes went by, and I couldn’t remember why I liked being here all alone so much.
I missed him, and I hated it. I missed his stories and his addiction to energy drinks.
I missed the thud of his feet on the treadmill next to mine.
And I missed his abs. I really missed his abs.
And now, today, nothing. No smiles, no stories, and most importantly, no abs.
Did I do something? Ha, no, that’s silly. I’m perfect.
Okay, well, that’s a lie. But Colt always talks to me like he thinks I am. That the barest waves of attention I give him, even just walking next to him on the treadmill, are the highlights of his day. Grinning his stupid, dopey smile for the rest of the afternoon and well into the night.
Midway through my spiral, he steps up to the treadmill directly next to mine, like he does every morning.
I thought at first maybe he had a favorite one and I just happened to have picked the one next to it, so one day I moved all the way to the other end.
And like a good boy, when he came up to the treadmills to join me, he still picked the one directly next to me.
“Ooh, a change of scenery today. This is a much better section of wall to stare at than the center machines,” he had quipped, obviously aware of what I had tried to do by switching machines.
He’s here every morning for his workout without fail. The only day I don’t see him now is Sunday, when the club isn’t open. And now those days feel oppressively quiet in my empty apartment. It can’t be healthy to wish you were at work on your one day off.
If something bad had happened, he would have skipped the gym altogether, not just the part where he talks my ear off.
What if he decided it’s not worth the hassle, trying to get me to engage. That I’m not worth it.
Oh God, I shouldn’t care this much. I should just be grateful he’s decided to move on. I’m hit with a wave of nausea that rolls through me, and I have to stop myself from physically recoiling at the thought of him moving on.
He could have met someone outside of this part of his life. He’s an active guy, playing on intramural sports teams with buddies and spending a lot of time with his family. Fuck, what if that’s it? He met someone and now he’s being all aloof and distant because his interest has shifted?
Probably to someone who smiles.
I turn to look at him, and he gives me a pathetically weak grin in return. The smile doesn’t reach his eyes, no dimple peeking out from his left cheek. He looks like a shell of himself. Hair mussed, and a little frizzed on the ends, like he spent the night running his hands through it.
He's already turned back towards the front of his treadmill, but I keep my eyes trained on him. The dark circles under his eyes match his fucked-up hair, giving me another reason to believe he slept poorly, if at all.
I stop my treadmill and completely turn to face him when the belt stops. I yank out my earbuds and put them back in their case with more aggression than probably needed.
“What’s wrong with you?” I blurt at him. Probably could have scored higher on delivery, but I’m worried and sometimes the worry can come out with a little more bite than I mean it to.
He stops his machine and turns to me, eyes a little wide. Most likely because this is the most I’ve talked in the weeks we’ve been having these little morning sessions together. And it was to shout at him.
He bows his head, looking utterly defeated. Like speaking the words out loud will add to their weight.
He doesn’t try to pretend he’s fine or placate me. There is no reassurance that he can handle it or that it’s not my place to ask him.
“My oldest niece is sick. I don’t usually talk about it a lot because I get emotional and I’m trying to stay positive,” he pauses, eyes still downcast. “She isn’t responding to her treatments the way they hoped she would.
There is an experimental treatment available, but insurance says they aren’t going to cover it because it’s still in the preliminary phase.
” He takes a deep breath, as if he’s been holding it in and was finally given the clearance to let go.
“She’s only eight. How can they justify denying her any form of treatment, experimental or not?
It’s bullshit. Absolute bullshit.” His body slumps even further, arms leaning too heavily on the machine to help carry this weight.
“And there is nothing her parents can do, nothing more than the doctors treating her haven’t already tried.
Pushing and calling the insurance company on their behalf. ”
The more he talks, the more frustration and anger weave their way into his words. He looks back up at me, and I can see what he’s feeling clear as day across his features. Helplessness.
It’s a look I know all too well. One I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. To be willing and desperate to help, but unable. The need to make it better when everyone else is telling you it’s out of your hands. To be patient.
“How much is the experimental treatment? Out of pocket, I mean.”
He scoffs, “More than my brother and sister-in-law make in a year. Combined.”
“The club can give you a loan.” We can? “Help cover Emma’s treatment now and then just work it off over time.
No interest rates, and obviously, we wouldn’t expect you to pay it back all at once.
” Because we don’t do this. “But overtime here and there, it adds up.” I wouldn’t let you pay it back, anyway.
I can tell I’m talking too fast. It’s a terrible idea, stupid and reckless, and I can practically hear Grant telling me how irrational I’m being. But the offer was out of my mouth before I even knew what I was proposing. And I would offer it again and again. Reckless it might be, but also worth it.
“I can’t take your money,” he says, a serious and confused look on his face as he scans mine. Is he looking for a trap, some kind of loophole that would make him indebted to me forever?
If I had more time to put something together…
“It’s not my money. It’s the club’s money,” I retort, resting my hands on each hip as we stare each other down. I had to offer something. Anything to never see that look on his face again.
Colton cocks his head to the side and reaches out across the treadmills guards to lightly grip my hand.
His mouth curves up as he repeats, “I can’t take your money.
” His voice is a little softer than it was at his initial rejection.
Like he knows my loan offer from the club is a load of bullshit and instead of calling me out on it, he takes it for what it is.
Compassion, understanding, and hopefully, comfort.
What he doesn’t understand is that I can’t let it go—I can’t do nothing.
He might say no, but I’ve never liked being told I can’t do something.
He doesn’t let go of my hand right away, instead giving it a gentle squeeze. I glance down to where his hand is clasped around mine, swallowing it whole.
“You called her Emma,” he speaks, voice barely above a whisper. And now the small curve of his lips is crawling up towards a smile.
“Yes…that’s her name,” the reply coming out more like a question. Did I mix up nieces?
“You knew who I was talking about.”
“Well, yeah…” I say, heartbeat kicking up as I realize a step too late the mistake I’ve made.
“I never said her name. I said my eldest niece, not Emma,” he pauses, smile growing with each passing heartbeat as his thumb moves in light circles against the inside of my wrist. “You’ve been listening to me.”
His thumb trailing over my skin, even in such an innocent way, is causing my head to fog and my wit to falter.
It’s too late to deny my slip up, claim it was a lucky guess.
He’s too distracting like this. I shift to pull my hand back.
The moment is growing more intimate the longer we are connected like this, but Colton isn’t willing to let me go that easily.
His eyes bore into mine as his hand continues its relentless soothing.
I don’t know what to tell him. I don’t want to lie, but the truth somehow feels worse.
That his voice has captivated me. That I feel like I know his family almost too well, just from the stories he’s told and the love he pours into his words when he speaks about them.
That I want to know if he speaks about me with that much heart.
Do I haunt your dreams like you haunt mine?
“Yes, I’ve been listening to you,” I tell him, my words coming out in a tone I rarely use, soft and sincere.
He nods once, still smiling before he releases my hand, fingers trailing along my own for as long as they can before it falls back to my side. The tightness returns to my chest, the strength he lent has seeped away, and the warmth I felt ices over once again.
“You can stop pretending,” he says quietly, turning back to his machine and pressing the green start button once again. My mouth opens, but no words come out. After a beat, he looks over again and points to the headphone case sitting on the console.
“You can stop pretending,” he repeats, smile becoming coy and infuriatingly knowing.
But I can’t stop pretending.
It’s all I know.