Page 11 of Forever & Always You
Austin tries to catch my eye, but I refuse to meet his. I thank the nurse for stitching me up as good as new, then head outthe door with my ice pack. My steps are quick as I attempt to navigate my way out of this maze of hallways.
“Wrong way,” Austin says.
With a sigh, I pivot on the spot and brush past him, still never meeting his eyes. He trails behind me and I get the sense he finds amusement in my obvious attempts to evade him, but by the time I find my way out of the building, it dawns on me that I can’t actually recall how I got here. All I remember is feeling super dizzy as I swept glass off my clothes right up until the nurse gave me some anti-nausea tablets and everything gradually stabilized.
I spin around to look at Austin, only because I have no choice now. “Did you drive me here?”
“You certainly didn’t walk,” he says. Pulling a set of keys from the pocket of his suit pants, he spins the keyring around his index finger with a nonchalant whistle. “Car’s this way. You’re concussed and I won’t be held responsible if you spin into traffic, though I’d learn to live with it.”
“Ha-ha,” I say dryly.
I expect Austin to laugh, or even smile justalittle bit, but his expression is poker straight. At over six feet, his strides are wide and he takes off across the hospital campus without so much as a glance back in my direction. I power walk to keep up with him.
“Didn’t the nurse just tell me to avoid sports? I’m breaking a sweat over here,” I call out to him.
“Maybe you should work on your fitness then.”
I glower at the back of his head. My Austin was shy and stumbled over his words. Now he’s back-talking me? Now he’switty? I shouldn’t expect him to be the same guy he was years ago, but hell, it’s jarring. And not only jarring, but kind of intriguing. I love men who can deal with my sarcastic mouth, though I’d love it a lot more if he clearly didn’t despise me.
“How’d you get to my office, anyway? Did you drive? I’ll takeyou back to your car,” Austin says, then slows to a halt next to a—of freaking course—Porsche 911. Dark green, exactly like the toy in his office, exactly like my father’s.
“This isyours?”
Austin soldiers on with that blank, disinterested stare of his. “God, you really do have a concussion. I drove you here in it. Now get in, Gabrielle.”
The headlights of the car stare me down menacingly as I circle around to the passenger side. I am no stranger to luxury cars, and yet when I climb into Austin’s, I find myself running my hands over the leather dash in appreciation. Yellow seatbelts, embroidered Porsche crests on the headrests, a panoramic sunroof. As he gets in next to me, I eyeball him suspiciously out of the corner of my eye.
“How much money do you make?”
Austin pushes a button to start the car, and the engine roars to life with a throaty growl, turning heads in the parking lot. “You can’t ask me that,” he says, then gives me a pointed look. “Seatbelt. Now.”
I roll my eyes as I pull the yellow seatbelt over me. “Why not? You clearly have lots of it. Your office building? Bougie. Your car? Bougie. Yoursuit?Don’t even get me started. You’rerichrich.”
“And?” He looks at me hard.
“And .?.?. I don’t know. I guess I’m just impressed you made it,” I say, but as soon as the words leave my lips, I realize how backhanded the compliment is. Shoot. I’m terrible at this. Maybe I’m the one stumbling over my words these days. “Not that I didn’t think youcouldmake it. Fuck. I’m sorry. I’m concussed.” I bury my head into my hands, rubbing my temples as though to work some sense back into my dumb brain.
“I get it,” Austin says, eyes set forward as he drives, the car moving sleekly toward the exit. “It’s a lot to expect the brokekid to climb out of his poverty hole, huh? Please just sit there quietly, Gabrielle, and don’t say another word. It’s better for both of us.”
His words are enough to silence me, anyway. The guilt seeps through my veins gradually and painfully as we head back to the office. I don’t know where to look when my thoughts are so loud, and it doesn’t help that Austin hasn’t even turned on the radio. It’s just cold silence. I steal a few glimpses at him as he drives, one hand on his knee, the other on the wheel. His shirt sleeves are still rolled up.
I can’t bear the silence for one more beat, so I say, “I’m sorry.”
Austin fixes me with a look that’s borderline threatening. “Didn’t I say don’t talk?”
The callousness of his tone stings, but I guess I have no right to feel his attitude is unwarranted, because quite frankly, he has every right to treat me like shit. I treated him a lot worse and now I’ve come barging back into his life and disrupted his workday.
There’s a small private parking lot behind Austin’s office building that we pull into, and the car is barely shut off before I’ve released my seatbelt and stepped out. At this point, I’ve decided to entirely scrap the idea of brandishing our signed agreement in Austin’s face. We were twelve. It means nothing over a decade later.
“Okay, well,” I say, hands on my hips, staring across the roof of the car at him as he straightens up and unrolls his sleeves. “I’m sorry for ruining your day. I’m sorry for ruining high school for you. I’m sorry for everything, and I wish you good luck in life.”
Austin’s eyebrows draw together. He doesn’t respond, simply shrugs on his suit jacket and secures the front button. Just before I turn to walk away, he finally says, “That’s your apology?I’m sorry for ruining high school?Jesus, Gabrielle. You’re theworst.”
“Um, excuse me.” I point a finger across the car roof at him. “Wasn’t I trying to apologize earlier? Remember that? When you were telling me to get out of your office? I’m the concussed one yet somehowIremember.”
Austin scoffs and walks away, heading around the building to the front entrance. I follow, not because I have anything more I’m willing to say to him, but because my car is parked out there. When he reaches the door of his office, he hesitates.
“Goodbye, loser,” he says. His tone is a touch warmer now, his features softer, and my heart stutters. I can’t believe he remembers that too. It’s how we always said goodbye when we were kids.
