Page 67 of What If I Hate You
I know I need help, but the thought of reaching out for reinforcement fills me with dread. It means I’ll have to open up to my teammates, lay my vulnerability bare, and that’s not who I am. I’m not the one who wears his heart on his sleeve like Ledger, nor am I the jokester like Griffin. I’m the grumpy one, the guy who would rather sit in his own shit, suffering in silence, than ask for assistance.
But sleep has been elusive, and the absence of Blakely’s texts or visits gnaws at me. I miss her more than I care to admit. Whatever went wrong between us shouldn’t have ended the way it did, and I’m torn about what to do. I need to act, to somehow mend what cracked, yet the fear of exposing my vulnerability holds me back. Still, the thought of letting this chance slip through my fingers is unbearable, hence the text message to the guys.
Harrison
What’s up Teddy Bear?
Me
I need to…uh…talk. And I’m starving. Harold’s for lunch?
Ledger
Finishing up a workout. Can meet you there. May or may not have one of the babies with me.
Griffin
*Yawns* I guess I better put some pants on.
Me
Is Layken with you, Griff?
Griffin
Why do you think I’m not wearing pants bro?
Me
Good I need her too. And Marlee and Ella. Actually, bring all the ladies if they’re available.
Bodhi
Corri’s at the hospital. Sorry man.
Oliver
Scarlett’s with me. We’ll be there in a few.
August
This must have something to do with one Blakely Rivers, huh?
Me
Something like that.
I step into Harold's Hot Dog Diner, the smell of grilled meat and deep-fried everything hitting me like a wall. The place is a dive, but it's our nostalgic dive. Wood-paneled walls plastered with local sports memorabilia, checkered tablecloths that have seen better decades, and Harold himself, a kindly seventy-something who likes to slide extra fries onto our plates because to him we’re still “growing boys.”
The guys are already here, sprawled across two pushed-together tables in the back corner. I spot Harrison first, then Ledger with his baby daughter strapped to his chest in one of those ridiculous carrier things. Griffin's got his arm slung around Layken, who's mid-laugh. Marlee and Ella are huddled together, heads bent over a phone, probably plotting world domination or some shit.
My stomach knots as I slide into the booth alongside Harrison. I glance across from me at a narrow-eyed Layken who greets me with a stern, “You’ve got that ‘I-fucked-up-and-don’t-know-what-to-do-about-it’ look on your face.”
I want to slide right back out of the booth as soon as I hear Layken's assessment. She's sharp as a fucking skate blade and twice as dangerous when she's in protective mode.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I mutter, but everyone at the table gives me the same knowing look. EvenHarold himself shoots me a sympathetic glance as he drops off a basket of fries without me ordering them.
"Bullshit," Griffin says cheerfully, stealing a fry from August's plate. "You texted SOS and asked for all the ladies to be here. This is about Rivers."
