Page 25 of Until We Fall

8

Rory’snot in our room. I stand in the center, between the bed and the couch, staring out the sliding door. I walked the boardwalk for twenty minutes before coming back to see if he was here.

Now, I check my phone for the millionth time.

Whereishe?

I walk over to the sliding door, shoving it open and stepping outside, pinching the bridge of my nose as I inhale fresh air like it’s a lifeline. The smell of plumeria is thick, sweet, and strong. It doesn’t calm me.

Where would he go? What would he do?

Back at IFU, probably the library, tucking himself into a carousel. Is there a place like that here?

I can’t keep standing here, doing nothing. Not when Rory’s out there.

I pull up our group chat with Carter and Theo, just to make sure he hasn’t responded in there, and then I text him separately again.

Can you just confirm that you’re okay? You don’t have to say anything else. I’m just worried about you.

I hit send and stare down at the phone for a long minute, my throat tightening, my fear growing with each passing millisecond.

Anything. Please.

I’ve texted him nearly thirty times. Overkill? Logic probably says so, but it doesn’t feel like it.

“Just text me once,” I mumble. “Just to let me know that?—”

“I’m okay.” His voice comes from the door, and my head jerks up, my heart thumping double time.

He’s here. Oh, thank fuck, he’s here. In his checkered board shorts and sandals, red hair swept back, green neon around his neck, white tee and that pineapple on his arm.

My eyes sweep him again and again. My heart’s in my throat, my hands shaking. I pocket my phone.

“I was so worried,” I croak out, and it feels like the biggest understatement of my life. Fuck, I’mscared. Because of hurting him. Because of what I feel. Because of all these thoughts that are waking up and falling into place. Or maybe they’ve been there all along—waiting. “I’m so sorry, Rory. I didn’t mean to say something that hurt you. But itdidhurt you, and that’s what I care about. I won’t say it again.”

He’s standing so stiffly. Jesus, what is hethinking?

He licks his lips. “You just told the truth.”

“But not the truth like you think it is.” I take a step closer to him. I just want to be close to him. “Ilikeyour size and your height. I like your?—”

“You don’t need to pretend, D.” His hands are shoved into his pockets, his forearms so tight that they’re quivering. The echo of neon highlights a ripple in his jaw.

He’s angry. Or hurt. Or both.

I did this.

“I’mnotpretending.” My throat closes even more. I want him to know how I see him. If I could just dump that image out at hisfeet, would he understand? “In no fucking way am I pretending. I?—”

“Juststop.” His voice cracks. “We don’t have to do this.”

“Do what exactly?” I ask softly.

“This.” He closes his eyes, breathing in a way that fully expands his chest, and it almost seems like the leaves and trees are moving with him, this steady in and out of the breeze, stars winking far above, the moon hidden somewhere behind the broad leaves.

His eyes open, settling on me. “You always try to make me feel better, and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. But we don’t have to pretend that you’re into me. You said it back there.Little.”

“I’m not pretending. And I’m not just trying to make you feel better.” I want him to understand. “Ilikeyou, Rory.”

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