Page 69 of Brazen Deceits

He jams the clothes into his bag, standing up and turning away. “I’m not responsible for your anxiety, Clara.”

Closing my eyes against the sting of his words, I flounder. They cut far more than they should. I tried yelling at him; I tried ignoring the problem, I tried pretending things were fine, and nothing’s worked. We’re going to talk it out. It’s the only choice left. And if I get hurt when he’s throwing darts? I guess I just need to dodge faster and ignore any that hit. I can nurse my wounds later.

“You’re right, you’re not responsible for my anxiety. I am. But I’m not crazy. There’s something going on with you. Tell me, Walker. Please.”

He sets his bag on the bed, wandering into the bathroom to get his toiletries. I stay sitting on the floor, not sure if I should push or wait.

As he dumps the last of his things onto the bed, it dawns on me. I haven’t seen his sketchbook this whole trip. In fact, I haven’t seen it since before we fought. It hasn’t been sitting on the kitchen island or left on the living room coffee table. A part of him has been missing and I haven’t noticed. I slink to my feet, reaching for his elbow, his muscles rigid under my fingers. “Walker.”

His fake smile vanishes, his eyes searching me for something, for some answer. But I have no answers, only questions.

“I’m not making you happy, am I?” he asks.

I shake my head. “This isn’t about me, Walker.”

His phone buzzes in his pocket and—taking any excuse to avoid this conversation—he pulls it out. Reading the message, his eyes shutter shut, before his body folds in on itself. Hishand clenches around the phone, then jams the thing back into his pocket. “If I’m not enough, then let’s stop kidding ourselves.”

“Wait, what?” I squawk.

His hands frame my face, his forehead pressing against mine, his actions telling me he cares. “This isn’t working, Clara. We tried. We failed. It’s time to move on.”

“Walker, I don’t want to break up with you. I want to talk with you.”

He does one last scan of the room. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

I grab a fistful of his shirt. “Walker, you’re being ridiculous.”

“You just said I’m too hot and cold, that you don’t want to deal with that. You as good as said I’m not making you happy. Why would you stay with me? There’s nothing wrong with a rebound, Clara. I can be that. But whatever it is you think you want from me? I can’t give it.” He shrugs, peeling my hands from his shirt. “You’re good getting a ride from RJ, right?”

“Walker…” I back up to the door, keeping him in the room. What was it Jansen said? Sometimes you have to force him to say things out loud for him to realize how dumb he’s being? How do I force him to talk about something when I don’t even know what is keeping him from being, well, him?

He reaches around me, pulling the door against my back, gently but incessantly forcing me to move, until he can squeeze into the hallway. I fling open the door, chasing him out, watching his back as he strolls away like he hasn’t just taken a chunk of my heart with him.

The elevator dings while I waffle over chasing him, over asking for forgiveness, begging for everything to be better. “Walker,” I call, the held back tears turning my voice wobbly.

But I can’t make my feet move, I can’t force the words to leave my tongue, not anymore, not since I promised myself that I wouldn’t beg, not unless I’m the one who messed up. He steps into the elevator, not turning back, not saying anything, just letting the heavy metal doors separate us with a thud.

He left. Again.

And this time felt final.

RJ catches me from behind as a sob wracks through me, cradling me in the safety of his arms. He bundles me back into the room, pulling me into his lap on the couch, holding me as I weep. His fingers stroke through my curls, down my back, soothing, comforting.

I look up at him, his face blurry through my tears. “Why won’t he justtalkto me?”

Not expecting any answer, I burrow my head into his chest, breath all but impossible to find.

His hand stills between my shoulder blades. “I don’t think Walker really talks to any of us.”

I blink back some tears. “What do you mean?” I gasp, a whimper following my words.

He’s staring at the wall across from us, brows furrowed. “I mean, I know he has three brothers, but I only know one of their names. I know he hates celebrating his birthday, but I don’t know why. He’s shared maybe three stories from before we started college. Walker is one of my closest friends, and I’d trust him with my life, with my future, but he doesn’t share,not really. I’ve heard more stories about Trips’ sister than Walker’s shared about himself, which is absurd.”

I press my cheek against his chest, the beat of his heart lulling me, the same as it did last night. “Do you think anyone really knows him?”

“If anyone has weaseled their way in, it’d be Jansen, but I think Walker just keeps his cards close to his chest.”

Taking one deep breath, then another, I calm myself, clarity alighting as my mind quiets.

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