Page 12 of Running Risk
He pauses, only allowing me to catch up before walking again.
“You don’t need to do this.”
He nods.
I huff out a breath. “I mean, I don’t want you to.”
“Understood.” He rubs a hand over his short beard.
He doesn’t stop walking, and we are halfway through the market. I can barely keep up, but he seems to be in a rush. It would now take longer to have him put back the fruit than to have him bring it to my truck, so I shut my mouth and follow. The sooner we get to my truck, the sooner he’ll go away. My gaze lowers to my feet for a second to make sure I don’t trip, but at the same moment, someone bumps into me, knocking me tothe ground. My apples roll out of my bag and across the concrete.
“I’m sorry, miss,” a husky voice says.
I grab as many apples as possible, stuffing them back in my bag when two more hands also put a few inside. Clayton and the guy who bumped into me are kneeling to help with the fruit. I get up and brush off my legs.
“It’s okay,” I say to the stranger. He’s tall with dark hair and a strong jaw, but he smiles bright as he watches me.
“Would you like help?” the man offers.
“I’ve got it.” Clayton grabs a couple of bags from my hands, standing to his full height with the watermelon in his other hand.
“Okay. It was nice bumping into you.” The stranger winks and walks away.
I can’t help smiling, but when Clayton comes back into my view, the smile drops into a frown. “What?”
He shakes his head, grumbling about something as he keeps walking somehow faster than before.
Unlocking my truck, I open the passenger door and place all my groceries inside, quickly grabbing the watermelon from Clayton so I can avoid as much contact as possible. Turning back to face him, I glare through my lashes as I force myself to talk.
“Thank you,” I say in a clipped tone.
He scoffs, and my body tenses even more.
“Do you have something to actually say to me?”
He looks at me as his head tilts to the side like he’s considering his exact words before shaking his head and looking away. “Nope.” He turns and walks back toward the market, leaving me speechless.
8
CLAYTON: NOW
My thumbs tapon my knees as my eyes follow the swirls in the design on the carpet. The gray swirl overlaps with a beige one. Anytime I’m here and have too much on my mind, I can’t help but trace the swirls with my eyes, helping me focus on something other than the overwhelming thoughts running amok in my head.
“Clayton, you’re especially quiet today,” Dr. Wilson says, holding a clipboard with a pen ready to mark her comments.
I’ve been seeing Dr. Wilson for a few years now, and she’s helped me cope with my anxiety and past traumas. I never knew how valuable a psychologist could be until my mind finally was able to quiet down after using her techniques. But sometimes, my brain isn’t able to shut off enough for me to compose a solid thought. Those are the times I am the quietest and focus on her rug.
“This week—” I take a breath and then another, closing my fists. “Rylee,” I say the last word like it’s the answer to everything. The answer to my problems. The answer to my thoughts. The answer to what my life has been missing.
She nods, understanding who Rylee is and how much she affects me. “I see.”
I stand up, walk toward the window, and hope the landscape outside will help. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. I saw her. Nothing has changed. Why did my subconscious assume that maybe, after all this time, she would be ready to move on? She didn’t even want my help with a fucking watermelon. Gripping the trim on both sides of the window, I say, “She still hates me.”
She writes something on her clipboard. “I’m sure seeing her was—” she pauses, wanting me to finish the sentence for her.
She always does that. Doesn’t want to put words into my mouth, so she starts the sentence and waits for me to finish it. “Dumbfounding.”
Her eyebrows raise at my response, and I take a deep breath before returning to my chair. If I’ve learned anything about Dr. Wilson, it’s that my last response just earned me a healthy round of follow-up questions.
