Page 81 of Hook Up

With a final goodbye, she walks out the door, suitcases in tow.

The woman just deserted me with a man who can’t stand me. Let the good times roll.

Then again, maybe she’s right. Maybe all Ryder needs is some time to calm down.

“You can leave, too,” Ryder mutters from the couch.

Maybe not.

“I’m not leaving.”

“Why are you still in Charlotte? I told you to leave over a week ago.”

“And I told you over a week ago that I wasn’t leaving. It’s not happening, Ryder. You’re not the boss of me.” I cross my arms over my chest and although he can’t see the gesture, I know he can feel the energy. I’m an immovable mountain. “Are you hungry?”

Ryder stands, his hands stretched out in front of him, desperately searching for anything familiar. “I’m going to bed.”

“It’s two in the afternoon.”

“Does it matter? Not like I have a life anymore.” He steps forward, knocking his shin against the coffee table, a hissed curse flying from his mouth.

With a resigned huff, I realize I have two options: continue fighting him or let him win this round and focus on the long game. Moving to his side, I grab his arm, feeling him tense against my touch. “Come on. I’ll help you to bed.”

It’s been a week. In that week, Ryder hasn’t said more than ten words to me, with the exception of a variety of grunts and growls.

He also hasn’t left the bedroom, nor has he showered. His beard and hair are grown out and unkempt and his clothing can stand up on its own.

The only saving grace is that he’s learned to navigate his master suite, so at least he isn’t shitting in a box by the bed.

I’ve stayed out of his way, at his behest, only daring to check on him when I’m delivering his food tray or the stray moments when exhaustion overtakes him, and he sleeps. Then, I slip to his side, quiet as a mouse, the helplessness squeezing my heart as I gaze upon him, desperate to be of value but feeling more useless with each passing day.

He’s refused every therapy visit, but they promise they’ll continue to drop by in the hopes he changes his mind. Hell, at this point they’re bringing me coffee and words of encouragement.

God knows I need both.

I know Ryder is hurting. He’s scared. He’s also built a wall a mile thick around himself, blocking out everyone, including the people who love him. Especially the people who love him.

But I soldier on, though I’m not sure if it’s stubbornness or stupidity at this point.

In the evenings, I sit by Ryder’s pool, though I don’t dare swim. I know I’m not welcome, and the last thing I need is him hearing me having any semblance of fun. That’s why the television has remained off, as well. I fill my downtime researching everything I can find about his condition or cleaning his house from top to bottom.

Hell, even his housekeeper commented on how the place sparkled during her last visit.

Jillian gives me updates every few days on Greg’s progress through rehab. Ryder’s accident threw my brother for a loop, along with his childhood friend cutting him from his life. Apparently, Ryder now detests the entire Hammond clan.

Colton has also stopped by a couple of times, although Ryder refuses his visits, as well. But he’s offered me support, which I desperately need. I’ve worn down over the last week. I’m exhausted and sick to my stomach most days, no doubt because of the enormous stress.

That’s also likely why my period is late.

Stress.

In one of my two jaunts out of the house, I grabbed a test on impulse. Now, if I could only find the guts to use it.

After staring at the box for the better part of an hour, I snatch up the test and rush to the bathroom. I’m still on the toilet when a resounding crash sounds upstairs, and I chuck down the test, taking the stairs two at a time to Ryder’s room.

Bounding inside, I note the glass of water I set on the bedside table is now in a million pieces on the other side of the room.

Wonderful.

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