Page 32 of Reckless Roses
Zach only shrugs.
My jaw trembles, my eyes ache with tears, but I refuse to let them fall. “So, August is in love with me, and I’m in love with you.” My voice breaks. “Who’re you in love with, Zach?”
He has never said those words to me, not in the nearly ten years I’ve been chasing after him. Sometimes, I think that’s exactly why I can’t let go, why he won’t say it. He doesn’t want to give himself to me, not entirely, not the way I have to him. It’sthe piece of armor he keeps firmly over his heart, even when I’ve laid mine completely bare.
He loves me. He’s notin lovewith me.
“You know how I feel about you, Elena. Don’t weaponize that.”
I tilt my head, forcing innocence into my voice as I ask, “You mean the way you weaponize my dreams just because you’re insecure about not having any of your own?”
The words leave my mouth before I fully register them, and as I watch his face crumble, my hand falls over my mouth. I didn’t mean to say that. I didn’t mean to call attention to the thing I know brings him the most hardship. I didn’t intend to speak the truth we both know too well but never address.
“I’m sorry, I?—”
“You know what?” Zach pushes up from his knees, standing from the couch. “You’re probably right, and you don’t need me around to bring you down.”
I can’t muster a response, those tears I tried so hard to hide finally stream down my cheeks as he walks into my room and returns a moment later with his clothes, tossing on an old T-shirt.
That springs me into action. I jump up from the couch, a wave of nausea slamming into me. I can’t tell if it’s from my cramping or from the sight of him leaving. Zach is like a constant mirage I can’t quite grasp, and every time he walks out a door, I feel sick with fear it’s the last time I’ll ever watch it happen.
“Zach, wait. Please don’t. I?—”
He grips the door handle, turning to face me once more. “For what it’s worth, I was only looking out for you. I’m sorry I don’t have my shit together, and I wish you the best with publishing your book. I’m sure it’s great.”
My heart is in my throat, fear wrapping around it and pulling tight. I can’t breathe, can’t respond, can’t think as I watch him walk out of my house and slam the door behind him.
My heart sinks, and I fight the urge to fall to my knees right in the entryway. The scene is so familiar, yet no less gutting as the slam of the door bounces off the walls of my chest cavity, fear grating against my ribs. Every interaction with Zach Hayes feels a little like walking on eggshells—constantly on edge, afraid I’ll do or say the wrong thing and set him off. When we fight, my instinct is to find anything I can use as armor, any weapon to protect myself, because I know nothing slices me quite so deep as his harsh words and disappointed sighs.
Sometimes, I’m so desperate to get the last word, the last hit, the last swing of my sword, that I go too far. Zach and I spar with each other, we trade blows to the soul, but he always comes out on top, like an unwritten deal between us.
He chooses me because nobody else ever would. He tolerates things another man would’ve walked away from long ago. In return, I always let him win. He’s always on top and in control. He always has the last word, and I’m always the one being reminded how lucky I am to have his attention.
So when I push a little too far, when I say something too real, something he can’t come back from, he walks away. Sometimes for hours, sometimes for weeks, months.
And it’s always my fault.
Rolling nausea presses against my abdomen, followed by a sharp, stabbing pain. My knees damn near buckle, and I turn, groaning as I waddle back to the couch and fall onto it. My breathing is labored and short, panting through my tears, heartache, and mother nature being a fucking bitch.
Without much thought, I grab my phone off the ottoman and dial the first number that comes to mind. I don’t ask for favorsoften, and I certainly don’t vent out my feelings or let others see me cry, but this instance calls for emergency help.
“Elena?” August’s soft, gruff voice filters through my phone a moment later.
“Hi.” I clear my throat, trying to rid the emotion from my voice. “Are you home?”
August has been living in San Diego for the last year, working as an apprentice for a tattoo artist and earning his two-year degree in Business Management. I don’t see him nearly as often as I’d like, but he still comes home to stay with his parents in Pacific Shores most weekends. He normally doesn’t make the drive until Friday, and today is Thursday, but I called on the off chance he might’ve driven up early.
“I’m still in San Diego. I’m heading home after work tomorrow,” he says. “Why? And why are you crying?”
I sigh, realizing he’s probably the only person on the planet who can tell when I’m upset, no matter how well I hide it. “I just…have bad cramps, and we don’t have any ibuprofen. I don’t feel up to driving to the pharmacy, so I was going to see if?—”
“I’ll be there in thirty.”
“No, it’s okay. You don’t need to drive all this?—”
“Elena,” August says sternly. “I will be there in thirty minutes. Do you need anything besides ibuprofen? Tea? Snacks? You want me to pick you up an animal-style grilled cheese?”
Fuck. That sounds good.
