Page 19 of Playing Dirty
“Try him again.”
“I am.”
He looked up from the fire, poker in hand. “And?”
“No answer.”
“Of course not.” He jabbed the coals like they’d insulted him, sparks kicking up in a short burst before settling again.
I bristled. “He’s probably just busy. Traveling.”
Rhett didn’t even look at me this time. “Stop making excuses for him. You’re snowed in. Alone. In his damn house. And the propane tanks are empty. That’s not busy, Callie. That’s negligence.”
“He didn’t know the storm was coming?—”
“Everyone knew,” he said, voice low but steady. “It’s been on the Weather Channel for days. Why wouldn’t he check in with you?”
I opened my mouth to argue. But nothing came out.
“I’m not trying to pick a fight,” he said after a second. “I’m just… disappointed.”
My chest tightened. “In Matt?”
“No. I don’t give two shits about that bastard,” He finally looked up, and this time the hurt was in his eyes. “I’m disappointed in you.”
That hit harder than I was ready for. I squared my shoulders, arms crossed, voice sharper than it needed to be. “Wow. That’s really helpful.”
He didn’t back down. “You used to call out bullshit faster than anyone I knew. You’d burn a man’s flannel shirts in the front yard for less.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I snapped, the words coming fast and hot.
He didn’t flinch. Just stared at me, calm and steady, like he was waiting for the real answer. The one I didn’t want to admit.
I turned back toward the window, watching the wind shake snow from the tree branches. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Rhett. I keep telling myself it’s temporary, or that he’s good deep down, or that I’m just overreacting—but none of it makes me feel better. I’m tired. I’m confused. And I stopped recognizing the girl in the mirror somewhere along the way.”
Behind me, Rhett stepped closer. Not touching. Just close enough to feel like backup.
“You’re not broken,” he said softly. “You’re just lost. And maybe a little bruised up from trying to be someone you’re not.”
A lump rose in my throat, thick and humiliating. I blinked fast, but one tear slipped out anyway. He reached up—just gently—and brushed it away with the rough pad of his thumb like it didn’t scare him to see me cry.
I didn’t pull back.
“I haven’t been real good to myself lately,” I said, voice shaking. “And I hate admitting that out loud.”
“Then start there,” he said. “Start by being honest with yourself.”
I turned to face him, our eyes locking. “How’d you get so calm?”
His mouth quirked at one corner, not quite a smile. “I’ve been through enough storms to know when to ride them out. And when to walk away.”
That one sat between us for a long, weighted second.
“Thanks,” I whispered.
He gave a half-shrug. “Don’t thank me yet. I might still piss you off before lunch, and you will hate me again.”
I huffed a laugh, small and broken and real. And for the first time in weeks, I didn’t feel so alone in my own skin.
