Page 44 of The Runaway

I don’t talk to people about my dreams. I don’t talk to people about anything. But I was so delirious with exhaustion and my body hurting and…I just wanted to help.

I didn’t want him to feel alone. Or embarrassed.

But not asking about his brother and instead asking about the first thing I could think of to get his mind off it—backfired.

I should go. I should pack up my one bag and go.

But not before I hold up my promise of cleaning out and boxing up Elliot’s things.

He can’t do that alone. He’ll end up throwing everything out without a second thought.

Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I pull up the plaid pants that have shifted around my hips and tiptoe to the bathroom.

I jump back when I look in the mirror, briefly forgetting I’m a redhead again.

“Oh,” I breathe. “Right.”

I’m in disguise.

As myself.

A shiver runs down my spine at the realization of how close I am to my old self again: No one in town likes me. I’m homeless and a redhead.

And Chase Reeves…wherever the hell he went—to the gym…for a bagel—hates my guts.

So much so that when I opened up to him in hopes of him doing the same, he told me to take my pickup lines someplace else.

I was so exhausted, his words almost affected me.

But I’m good now. My ass still hurts. But I’m good.

Changing back into my clothes, I fluff out the loose waves of my hair, dab on some gloss and venture out into the living room.

“Morning,” Chase says from the kitchen, startling me.

“Sorry I slept late,” I say, keeping my tone even and distant. Wouldn’t want him to think I’m falling for him if I keep it playful and…well normal. “I was just going to see myself out.”

He frowns. “I brought breakfast. This fridge hasn’t been well stocked in over a week.” He pushes a small paper cup with a plastic lid across the counter. “Black with sugar,” he says, remembering the way I ordered my coffee at the bakery in Hideaway.

I resist. “Thanks, I’ll just grab one on the way.” I pull my scarf off the hook by the door and wrap it around my neck, then reach for my bag.

He circles the counter. “Going somewhere?”

“Yeah. I’m going to grab the train back to town.” I offer a quick smile before turning on my heel.

I pull the door open, but it’s pushed shut before my eyes. “Why?” he grits.

I blink a few times and turn my head. “Because…you have a game to prepare for—errands to run—your own life to live. I’m fine. I’m a big girl who has done the train commute in and out of town before.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“It’s a twenty-dollar train ride and not worth your time.” I smile politely and attempt at pulling the door open again, but he doesn’t give it a chance. His hand keeps it shut tight.

“I’ll. Take. You.”

“I’m not in a motorcycle mood. My body is hurting and—”

“I have a car. I’ll go grab my keys.”

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