Page 5 of Endgame

That’s how I feel today.

Borderline ready to erupt and close to hysterics.

A healthy emotional balance.

I guess that’s the part of grief you don’t fully understand until you live it.

It’s mid-February in Atlanta and far too hot to be considered winter. It’s scorching inside my truck without air conditioning, leaving me no choice but to stand outside while I wait for Callaway to show up.

Despite my twisted personality, I happen to love the spring and summertime. There’s something about the easiness of the sunshine. It’s like my body responds to the blazing sun rays, and the salty air infiltrates my senses.

I’m not typically someone who thinks too far into things, but I feel my best at the beach.

When I was younger, my parents and I traveled a couple hours east to Saint Simons Island every summer. I have so many fond memories there. I remember telling my parents when I was old enough to understand that I wanted to live where we vacationed. That may not be where I ended up, but thankfully, Atlanta is still close enough to visit when my mood calls for it.

Those times are a massive part of why it's such a special place to me.

It’s my form of bliss.

But today, there’s no breeze, and the heat is thick.

It feels excruciating to stand here.

I’m thanking myself for assembling some type of care this morning and deciding on my current fit instead of sweats and a tank top. Despite how I woke up feeling, I decided to wear what I knew I would feel most comfortable in— a white body suit that hugs my breasts and accentuates my curvy hips, blending with high-rise flared jeans and Dunks—orange ones, to be specific.

I should be ashamed of the size of my Dunk collection—but I’m not. Ask my bank account, though, and we may have different opinions.

Pushing my long brown hair off my face, I glance upwards with one hand raised to block the sun as I hear the sound of an engine approaching the front entrance of the building.

Nerves hit me like a ton of bricks.

I’m standing on the curb, rocking back and forth, while running through conversation starters to get me through this car ride in one piece.

Jesus, he drives aJeep.

Why are Jeeps my kryptonite for a man? Well, that and tattoos. It must be my lucky day because Callaway is covered in them.

I need to shut down what I know is attraction for him because that can and never will happen. I’m also not in the mood to fake my face today; annoyance and frustration are clearly written, I’m sure.

He’s taking time out of his day to give me a ride, so I’ll show him as much kindness as I can manage.

I falter back as Cal’s Jeep rolls to a stop. I watch in hesitancy at his leisure as he lounges back in his seat, careless of the fact that he paraded up here looking like he owned the place. His right arm is draped across the steering wheel while the other reaches to turn down the music.

“There she is.”

His Wayfarer sunglasses are resting on the top of his head, giving me a close-up view of his strikingly handsome features.

Heaven help me, he’s pretty.

Callaway is the effortless kind of handsome. His black hair is long enough on the top to hang across his forehead, ruffled like he runs his hands through it often. He’s clean-shaven on the sides with the perfect five o'clock shadow. It’s evident he takes pride in keeping it clean and trimmed.

His blue eyes captured my attention from the start.

They look like the brightest sea glass the beach can offer, reminding me of the treasured pieces tucked into the hidden corners of the shore.

His confidence holds my attention and is one more thing about the untouchable man I shouldn't be noticing.

He’s sporting what looks to be a simple selection of practice gear, making it evident he has places to go.

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