Page 29 of Altius
“Oh, him?” I flashed a teasing half-smile and slipped through the door. “He looks good today.”
Heading for my exam room, I did my best to ignore the blush warming Alijah’s brown cheeks or the satisfied flutter in my chest, because I had work to finish.
And fast.
Forty-five minutes later, I was reclined in the passenger seat of Kelsey’s hatchback with my eyes closed, waiting for a migraine pill to kick in.
Rory’s constant chatter—wishing he’d grabbed more snacks from the omega lounge, expounding about how he and Landon were already besties, asking if we could listen to the newest episode of his favorite true crime podcast, lamenting that Jenna was skipping Thanksgiving with the family again, and musing that he might have forgotten to pack underwear—was a decent facsimile for white noise.
My phone vibrated. It was a text from Alijah. A personal text, the first of its kind, in a chat full of previously business-only messages.
I haven’t forgotten our promise. When can we finish our conversation?
I didn’t know how to answer him. It wasn’t fair that I’d been avoiding revisiting his half-confession from the ballet gala, but how were we supposed to talk about his feelings for me when I had the threat of mate waning syndrome hanging over my head and my heat coming up?
In a few weeks. When I’m in better shape.
Okay. I can wait a bit longer. But not too long.
Soon. I promise.
That makes it two promises.
I know. Hold me to them.
***
Thanksgiving was delicious chaos. The food was exquisite, as always, with a mountain of leftovers.
Precisely timed doses of medication kept my head from exploding.
By the time eight o’clock hit, my social battery was drained, and I didn’t want to listen to my cousin recite the story of how her pack proposed for the third time today.
After bidding my parents and other assorted relatives goodnight, I retreated with a mug of tea and a large slice of Mom’s apple pie.
Holed up in my childhood bedroom, a nest-like dormer room on the third floor of our family’s rambling old colonial farmhouse, I lounged on my pillow-strewn bed beneath a skylight, wearing Cal’s pilfered maroon cardigan and pretending to read—but I was actually staring at the clock.
I could hear Rory rummaging through his dresser on the other side of the wall. Looking for roomier sweatpants, no doubt. He’d enjoyed Thanksgiving dinner to the fullest, including three slices of Kelsey’s cranberry gingersnap pie, the surprise hit of the festivities.
It was almost eleven at night, which meant it was eight in California. Forty-nine hours since I’d hung up on Jacobi and fifty-three hours since his last text.
I’d done the math twice.
A normal lapse for most people. But not my best friend, who could generate dozens of text messages per day. The prolonged silence was abnormal.
He hadn’t responded to any of the messages I’d sent throughout the day, not even the panoramic shot of the dessert buffet or the video of my baby nieces hurling mashed potatoes at each other.
Cal had been the exact opposite, practically begging for updates.
It seemed the Carling family’s version of Thanksgiving was formal to the point of suffocation, made even worse by the lingering worries about his grandfather’s health.
When the clock ticked to eleven, I hit my absolute limit. I called Jacobi. It went straight to voicemail. I didn’t leave a message.
He knew what I wanted to talk about.
The clock ticked forward another minute. Then another. Deciding to risk it, I texted Grace. She might know something.
Did I break Jacobi?
