Page 11 of SALT

"Why did you leave?" I risk looking at him instead of at the nothingness that exists outside of my window.

"Excuse me?" he questions, somewhat confoundedly.

"After Con's wedding, you left. Out of nowhere, without a word, you just left."

His brow slightly creases as he keeps his focus out on the road. "I've been in Boston. That's hardly leaving, Cameron."

I pause, taking a second to consider my next words because they can't be taken back once they're out.

"You know what I mean, Everett." It's subtle, but an accusation all the same, and no one likes to be called out. Now the question is, will he own it? He's quiet, but the way his left hand grips the steering wheel more firmly is an answer, even if he chooses not to use his words. That grip tells me two things. I do affect him, and my heart flutters from the small victory, but it also tells me whatever words he chooses will be more of the same, a web of truth tangled in spin. As the silence stretches, my hurt morphs. It's no longer about where he and I stand. It's deeper than that. He left. "You left, Everett. You left me all alone in an empty house."

I don't say any more. I can't. If I do, I might break. He knows what I'm saying. I have no family. I have an aunt I barely know and a brother who may as well be a stranger. I haven't seen him since I watched my parents' caskets get lowered into the ground. I just don't care. I stopped caring about the people who don't lose sleep over me a long time ago. I had to so that I could stop dwelling on the things I couldn't change. It's the only way I could give myself a shot at shaping my future into what I wanted. So here I am, an orphan of sorts, and he just leaves.

His eyes briefly flick to mine, only to return to the road just as quick when he sees the sadness. "Sometimes an empty house is better than living with the depravity that existed when it was full."

I'm sick of the mind games. I know it's intentional. It's his way of giving me truths, saying all the things he wants to say, things that take weight off his chest but leave me hanging by a thread until he gives me another morsel. His words just now are a truth. The question is who is he referencing. Is he referring to the memories of a failed marriage that haunt the halls, or is it the thoughts of doing wicked things with me that torment him? This is where I would usually give up, telling myself he's not ready but finding contentment with the small gain. In this case, the car ride, but I can't bite my tongue. Not when he's been gone for months, and whatever words and stolen touches I'd normally have saved up in a love jar are depleted, used up, and left void as his absence spoke louder than any small advance.

"Does that mean you left because of me?"

I know he feels my eyes pinned to the side of his face. I know I'm making him anxious, and if history has taught me anything, it's that he doesn't like to be pushed, but that's also why I was careful with my wording. My question was innocent enough. I can spin it to mean something else if I find myself in a situation I need to backpedal out of. However, I don't know that I would because the buzz of electricity I feel now is too intoxicating. Pushing his buttons this way, playing his game and using his own words against him is much more satisfying than taunting him by hanging all over another man ever was.

"Why I left does not matter."

"It does matter if it's because of me, Everett I?—"

"Whatever you were going to say, don't." His tone is sharp. "Wherever your thoughts are leading you, stop. There's no point in pursuing them. It will never happen, Cameron."

Well, that answered one question. I was right. The depravity that haunts him is me.

"Why do you journal?"

He does a double take my way before turning his attention back to the road. I love knowing I'm now fucking with him the way he so easily messes with my head. He was so sure he knew what I was getting at when he delivered those stern words, and now he's wondering if he didn't just give up something I wasn't asking for at all.

Letting out an exasperated breath, he says, "There are many reasons, but mainly to let things go. It's a form of therapy."

Hook, line, and sinker. He not only took the bait but walked right into my next line. "Maybe I'm something you need to get out of your system."

Chapter 7

Everett

I'm a workaholic. I know this. It's why I got to the stadium hours ago. My inbox has over thirty flagged emails, and my type A personality is threatening to give me a panic attack. I don't think I've ever in my entire adult life had more than one email flagged for more than a few hours because I get shit done. You can't build your empire on the things you're going to do. It's the things you've done that solidify your reputation. I've been here since five a.m. I have a perfectly good home office I could have worked in for the past twenty-four hours, yet no work was done. All I managed to do was cancel the two engagements I had planned on the East Coast and flag these damn emails for follow-up.

I slam my laptop shut and walk over to the wall of windows overlooking the baseball field. I know why I can't focus. I thought leaving the house would help, but leaving has done nothing but make me more anxious. It's my own damn fault. When we drove home from dinner at Connor's, I didn't say anything back. I always have the last word, but I didn't. I said nothing when having the last word mattered most. Instead of closing a door, I opened it. I opened it, knowing I'd never step through. Why? Because the view is everything. Some would call it masochism, taunting myself with dreams I'll never reach for, but I see it as the penance I deserve for the deviant, perverted thoughts that haunt me. I didn't say anything back for two reasons, the biggest being I was done hurting her. I've already apologized to her more times than I have any other person in my life. I don't have regrets, therefore, apologies aren't necessary, but every move I make with her anymore feels like a misstep. Probably because it is. The second reason is just another amoral strike against me because it's purely selfish. I didn't fucking say anything because I liked knowing she still wanted me. I like knowing she thinks about me the same way I think about her.

"Damn it." My cock starts to thicken, and I immediately shove my hand into my hair. I can't sleep, and I can't work, and I already know I can't fuck her out of my system. I tried that when I was in Boston. No one managed to hold my attention. Grabbing the duffle bag I packed with extra clothes, I change into my running attire. Exercising always brings clarity, and if it doesn't, at the very least, it will lead to exhaustion and maybe sleep.

Running three miles around the perimeter of the stadium did the trick. I responded to ten of the thirty emails demanding my attention via voice-to-text. When I finished my laps, the team started showing up for morning practice, and to my surprise, Parker stayed in his lane. He kept whatever snide comments he may have had to himself. I can't be sure where all his anger is coming from. I thought it had to do with Cameron, but after dinner at Connor's this past weekend, I don't think that's it. If he wanted to be more than just friends or, worse yet, friends with benefits, he would have been different with her. While he hoarded her attention, no doubt intentionally, he wasn't intimate with her. At least not in the way he was at the wedding the last time I saw the two of them together. Then there's the fact that, at the end of the night, it was my car she left in. Again, another fucking detail that shouldn't matter. It shouldn't make me feel any type of way. If anything, I should be championing a union between them.

Either way, Parker's gone, the team's gone, and I got through a full practice with no issues. The stress I had for the past twenty-four hours has abated, and now I know the first task I need to tackle the second I get upstairs to my office: a cozy fucking couch. If being at the stadium is what it takes to put her out of my mind, I will live here for the summer until Connor reclaims his position.

No sooner than I toss my empty Gatorade bottle into the trash can in the concourse, I catch a glimpse of long red hair and an ass I'd know anywhere entering the team shop. And just like that, the resolve I had moments ago slips away. Connor and Mackenzie left for Florida, so I know she's not visiting Mackenzie, and the team is gone. The only people here are the concessions manager, the cleaning crew, and me. She has no reason to be here.

I pick up my stride as I make my way down the corridor until I reach the shop window, and I peek around the corner where the brick wall meets the glass, not wanting to give away my presence. But apparently, every plan I set is destined to go to shit because the second my eyes connect with her form, I'm storming into the shop.

"What the hell are you doing?"

She instantly grabs the shelf to steady herself as my question startles her.

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