Page 87 of Winning Brynn

"Is Salem asleep?"

"Yeah."

"You okay?"

"Yeah."

I snort. "You seem it."

He grimaces, walking into the kitchen and opening the fridge. I try to ignore the goosebumps prickling on my arms again, his frostiness biting into my skin like a cold wind.

"Have you eaten?" he asks without looking at me.

"Not yet. I was thinking we could get takeout. That really expensive Japanese place you like. Thought we could celebrate your win by burning our mouths with wasabi—if you were up for it, I mean." I'm rambling, but I can't stop myself. "We'd regret it tomorrow, I'm sure, but at least you have a rest day. So, really, what else is there to do but spend the day on the toilet?"

"Brynn?" He blinks at me, apparently having closed the fridge and turned in my direction while I was busy conducting my sermon. I nod. "I'm just gonna have a sandwich."

Wow.

Well, okay.

I watch him silently from the other side of the island as he sets about buttering bread and lathering each slice with deli meats, doing my damn best not to let my disappointment show on my face. Even when he offers to make me a sandwich, I don't answer with words, just a listless shake of my head.

I wanted to celebrate with him. I wanted him to know I was proud of him. I wanted him to acknowledge the significance of the kiss he'd blown me after he'd scored. I thought it had meant something, but I must have thought wrong.

"I'm gonna eat this in my room," he says, and God help me, but that's the final straw.

"So, we're back to this, then?" My voice comes out stronger than I feel. It even has an edge to it. Sharp like the blade Leo used to slice his sandwich in half.

He frowns. "Back to what?"

"The hot and cold bullshit. Blowing me kisses at your soccer game then acting like my existence is somehow an imposition to you, even though I'm here becauseyouhired me to look afteryourdaughter in your apartment thatyoutold me to move into."

I know him well enough by now to know what the problem is, to understand that he's struggling with the guilt of what we've been doing behind his best friend's back. And I get it. I'm not an asshole. But it doesn't mean I give him permission to be one either. Feeling shitty isn't an excuse for shitty behavior.

He drags his hand down his face, releasing a turbulent sigh. "You're not an imposition, Brynn."

"Well, you're making me feel like one."

His expression collapses in the warm light of the wall sconces, so twisted with turmoil that I almost reach out to pull him into my arms. But I don't. Because as much as he might be hurting, it doesn't make it okay for him to hurt me too. "I don't know what you want me to say," he whispers.

"The truth?" I shake my head with a humorless laugh. "Maybe tell me how you're feeling instead of giving me the cold shoulder. Let me in instead of locking me out. Trust in me enough to help you with this like you've helped me with my nightmares."

I can see the regret on his face, the frustration etched into each line. "I don't know how to do that."

"Try."

His lips part. Lines crinkle around his eyes as he thinks so loudly I almost hear it. But no words come out. He sighs, shoulders deflating, and he shrugs like he's done all he can. "I can't."

"Yeah." I nod, slow and disappointed. "I get it."

He says nothing as I walk away, just watches me leave with that same regretful sheen to his eyes. But if he isn't even willing to try, if he'd rather stab me in the soul with his silence and aloofness, then I can't keep standing there waiting for something that isn't coming.

"I wore your number to the game today," I say sadly over my shoulder. "Thought you might want to know."

I don't cry. It would be stupid to cry, since nothing has actually happened apart from a shitty text message and Leo wanting to eat his sandwich in his bedroom on his own.

Except, it doesn't feel like nothing.

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