Page 20 of Cherry Picking
He returns it with an arm around my shoulders, and I know our paint must be meshing together, but I really don’t care. My buzzed grin is pressed to his chest, and Riley’s chin is resting over the top of my head as we both work to settle our laughter.
When his arm tightens and his breathing stutters, I know something’s the matter. Before I can ask, he straightens up and pushes away, gray eyes following something across the room.
My head is spinning a little too fast from the shots, reminding me why I’m not big on alcohol, so it takes me a minute to notice the tick of Riley’s jaw and the visible pressure of him grinding his molars together.
I shake off the fogginess threatening to take hold and press my palm to his chest to get his attention. It works; his eyes snap from the unseen force down to mine. They widen, and he takes another step back.
“Fuck. Griff. I’m sorry.”
I frown. “For what?”
He flounders, lips trembling as he tries to come up with something and falls short. “I gotta go.”
It’s not logic that has me reaching out to grip his bicep as he turns to walk away, but it’s understanding that makes me let go, offering my hand instead.
I incline my head toward the bathroom, hopping off the makeshift wall seat and dragging him along with me. God bless this being a place that has a gender neutral bathroom with a lock, because I can practically taste the panic in the air as Riley heaves over the toilet.
He hasn’t had that much more alcohol than me, so I can’t imagine he’s this sloppy already, but whatever the reason I plant my ass on the floor beside him and stroke up and down the plains of his back.
Once his guts are spilled and he plops down onto the cold, dirty floor, I offer up my t-shirt for him to wipe his mouth.
“Disgusting,” he grumbles, but takes it anyway. “Thanks. Sorry again.”
“It’s what teammates are for.” I shrug, then tack on a little boldness and brush some of the long strands from the top of his head back to check his forehead. “I’m your friend, too, remember?”
He nods and turns so he can lean against the wall, and I adjust to sit cross-legged in front of him.
“What spooked you?”
The energy to be scared or put up a fight seems vacant in him, and he just buries his eyes in the crook of his arm.
“Matty.”
“Huh? Like your ex—roommate? Ex-roommate Matty?”
I can see his wobbly smile even as he lowers his arm to cover it with his hand. “You can call him what he is. I never thought I had you fooled anyway.”
Not like he did the rest of the team during their however-long relationship.
“I knew that he had moved to a studio in Boston. Was staying with a friend. I didn’t even think about it when Evan suggested coming here. Matty was never a party kind of guy. But …”
Riley buries both hands in his hair and drops his head to his knees pulled tight to his chest. “But there he was. Clear as day. You don’t forget someone you spent nearly two years of your life with.”
I nudge his calf with my own, creating a bridge of connection. A signal that I’m here for whatever he needs.
“Were things bad? Before they ended? People don’t usually get violently ill spotting their ex in public.”
He looks up and lowers a hand to my ankle, not pushing me away but making gentle strokes over my skin.
“It wasn’t that. We split amicably. It was seeing … knowing that I was holding him back. And realizing that I’ve been treating you like his replacement.”
“Do you want me to be?”
His fingers stop their movements and dig in hard enough to bruise. I take it because I know hurting me isn’t his intention.
“If you need an emotional rebound … someone to hold all of these feelings left rotting when your ex left … I can help.”
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Why I’d offer to be someone’s emotional punching bag. But damn, it’s not anyone. It’s Riley. Who cooks me dinner and looks after my inevitable injuries. Who finds comfort in the small, affectionate gestures.
