Page 54 of Pulled Away

“Told you. She’s not here.”

I sigh. This is not getting me anywhere. “Then I’ll just wait till she gets here,” I mutter, and park my ass in the waiting room after throwing Piper a filthy look.

The minutes tick by and I get lost in my thoughts, my eyes glued to the door that leads to the examination rooms. She’s the one who collects patients from the waiting room, so surely she’ll be out soon. Patience, Ryan. Patience. I shoot up straight when the door opens, but deflate when it’s not Aspen but her boss, Julia. The greeting on my lips dies when the look she gives me is brief and impassive. Shit, okay. Seems like another person whose shitlist I’m on.

It’s sometime after the lady with the golden cocker doodle—I can honestly say that I’ve gone from not knowing the breed exists to being an expert on them in the last half hour—has taken said golden cocker doodle to the examination room, that the door opens and Aspen steps out. I’ve been aching to see her, and the sight of her is like a shot of adrenaline to my system. I jump up from my seat and take the steps covering the distance between us.

“Aspen.” Her name is a prayer on my lips and I reach out to touch her. She takes a step back, recoiling from my touch, her arms folded protectively around her middle, and I swear I can feel the dagger slicing into my heart.

“Not here,” she says, and I’m helpless to do anything but follow her, even though it feels as if I’m being led to my execution. Her back is stiff and her whole body radiates an aura of aloofness when she finally stops and turns to me. Her eyes meet mine for a second before she looks away, focusing on something behind me. But that one second is enough to tell me just how screwed I am. In the time we’ve been together, I’ve seen many versions of Aspen. I’ve seen her happy, angry, sad, playful, filled with lust for me, and my personal favorite—every time she looked at me with love and tenderness. What I’ve never seen is this look of…nothing. This is a version of her I don’t know.

“Baby,” I whisper, my eyes greedy as they take in her face. She looks tired, her eyes rimmed with dark circles that should never have had the opportunity to grace her face.

“I don’t have long,” she says, still not looking at me.

“I’m sorry.” The need to touch her is so intense I have to fist my hands. I never thought there’d come a time when she’d shy away from my touch, and just the thought of it fills me with a haunting sense of loss. “I should never have gone.”

She shrugs, still not looking at me. “It was obviously important to you. What are you doing here, anyway? Shouldn’t you still be lying by the beach, sipping cocktails?”

I open my mouth to answer, but she cuts me off. “It doesn’t matter. Why are you here?” she asks, finally meeting my eyes, and I almost wish she didn’t. Her eyes are shuttered, giving nothing away, like a door that’s been slammed shut, keeping me firmly on the outside.

“You left. All your things are gone.”

“And?”

“Why?”

“You’re not seriously asking me that?”

“We discussed it. I thought you understood why I had to go. I thought you agreed with me.”

A car pulls into the lot, catching her gaze. We watch in silence as a woman gets out, opens the back door, and takes out a cat carrier.

When she disappears into the building, Aspen turns back to me. “No. We didn’t do any discussing and agreeing. That would imply both parties stating their point of view and coming to a mutual conclusion. That didn’t happen.” She glances at the door again. “Look, I have to go. It wouldn’t do to lose my job on top of losing my home,” she mutters, already turning away from me.

“Aspen. Wait. Please.”

“What, Ryan? What do you want?” she calls out, frustrated.

“A conversation. That’s all. Please. You owe me that.”

Her spine stiffens. “All I owe you is a goodbye,” she hisses.

“Sorry, sorry. You’re right. You don’t owe me anything, but I’m begging. Just one conversation.”

She stares at me for a few seconds before nodding. “I don’t see the point, but if a conversation is what it’s going to take to put this to rest, I’ll give you that.”

I’m nodding before she stops talking, my heart pumping with both dread and relief. All the signs are there. She’s made up her mind that we’re over, but I’m getting the chance to talk to her. To explain. To convince her of how much I love her, despite my poor choices. To convince her to give me another chance. To give us another chance.

“Thank you. How about we meet at seven? At our…my…the house.”

The concept that it’s not our house is so foreign to me that I stumble over my words.

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “I’m busy this week. We can meet on the weekend. I’ll text you where.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to demand what’s keeping her busy this week, but I’m already on thin ice and the look on her face strongly discourages me from doing so.

But fuck, the weekend is four days away.

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