Page 31 of Entwined Hearts

“What the fuck?” Kabir groans.

I turn to see my shocked friends. Jo is hugging herself, tapping her feet into the dirt.

“Come here, honey,” Colby says, pulling me into his arms.

I practically fall into his embrace. I realize it’s the closest I’ve been to another human since Jake left. My shoulders relax. I release a long, slow breath, sinking into Colby’s firm chest.

Jo comes up behind me and rubs my back. “I’m sorry, Anya,” she says.

Closing my eyes, I let Colby hold me. I can smell the laundry detergent he uses in the fabric of his shirt, and, of course, the sulfur from the hot springs on his skin. The warmth from his body and the compassion coming from Jo bring me back, and I’m able to push away.

Colby’s kind eyes watch me. “You feel like punching something?” he asks after a moment as a sly grin pulls at the corners of his lips. He taps his chest. “Take your best shot.”

I can’t help but smile. “No.”

“C’mon,” he urges. “It’ll make you feel better. I promise.”

I release a shaky breath. “No. I’m okay.”

“How did he even find this place?” Kabir says, shuffling to the driver’s side of the Subaru.

I’m pretty sure Jake’s on his way to Yosemite. So either Breeze/Bliss knew about this place and directed him here, or he’s known about this spot but kept it secret from me. I sigh in resignation—this feels more like the Jake I know.

“Should we slash his tires?” Jo asks.

“No,” I groan, shaking my head.

“Do you still have a key? We could raid his fridge,” Jo says.

I frown, trying to remember if Idostill have a key. But then my mind goes to an image of using it only to walk in on Jake and Breeze/Bliss.

A small cry leaves my lips. I shut my eyes. “Let’s just go,” I say.

The ride down the ridge is silent. I try to block out the vision of Jake whispering in her ear while she giggled. If he’s on his way to Yosemite, will she go too? I don’t know how good a climber she is, but I doubt she’s good enough to climb with Jake unless he’s willing to come down a few levels, which he never is. So what will she do all day in camp? Hang around and have dinner ready for him when he comes back? Ugh, it’s all so…irritating.

And that look he gave me. What the hell was that about?

And yes, it would have felt good to hit something, but not Colby. More like Jake’s windshield. With a rock. A big one.

I shake my head. No, I couldn’t do something like that. I remember my own words from the hot springs—we’ll all be climbing together soon. We have to be able to work together. I realize I’m clenching my fingers into fists and try to relax, but I’m wound tight. Maybe I’ll go for a run when we get back to camp. Or get drunk and try to forget all about it.

“Hey,” Colby says, and I realize he’s watching me. “You okay?”

I shrug, trying to focus on the passing landscape. A fat slice of ivory moon hovers above the horizon, barely visible in the dusk. In Morocco, we had a moon like that. The first night we were with the men, I tracked it across the sky to distract myself from what was happening. Jake and I didn’t speak, but his warmth was reassuring. “Sleep, Anya,” he kept telling me. “I’m here.” But I couldn’t. No matter how exhausted I felt, I couldn’t close my eyes.

I feel Colby’s hand slip over mine, and the cold desert night fades back. I squeeze his hand.

By the time we get back to camp, it’s dark. The other half of our party has returned, and a campfire is raging. The encounter with Jake takes a backseat as the socializing and meal-prep take over. I go through the motions of making a bowl of pasta, but don’t taste it. Halfway through my bowl, I realize I can’t eat anymore and chuck it into the trash.

Get over him, Anya, I tell myself.

Colby comes back from his truck, where I assume he’s been making his dinner. “I brought you these,” he says, bobbing two tea bags in a camp mug.

I’m confused, and he can tell.

“For your fingers,” he says, setting the mug down and pulling one of the tea bags from the water. He squeezes some of the liquid from it then reaches for my hand. With a gentle touch, he applies it to my fingertips.

I wince—they’re still sensitive.

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