Page 105 of Don't Let Me Go (Don't Let Me 2)

“So…,” I drag out, my voice tight. “Should we get started?”

“Sure.”

He lays down, lifting his leg so I can put the foam roller beneath it, and I get right to work. Other than a low groan, Burrows stays quiet as I start the techniques Russ had walked me through when I first started shadowing him. And it’s nice. Cathartic almost. Getting lost in my work. Letting the quiet wash over us. A few minutes later, Burrows sits up, and we do a few more stretches, working on his thighs and calves as well as his knee.

“So,” he grunts, “I looked for you the other night. At the party.”

Welp. So much for the comfortable silence.

I offer him a tight smile and mutter, “Oh?”

“Where’d you go?”

“Nowhere in particular.”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“No need,” I mumble under my breath.

“Do you hate me?”

Fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck.

My nose scrunches up, and I finally give in and groan, “Burroooows. Let’s not make this a thing, okay?”

“Look, I wanted to apologize.”

“I don’t care.”

He pulls back, surprised. “How can you not care?”

“Because I don’t,” I offer weakly. “I know it’s stupid, but what’s done is done. I’ve moved on and let it go, so you should too.”

I glance at Russ who’s still helping Graves on the opposite side of the room. The celebratory music is blasting from down the hall, and I’m grateful for it. Grateful for the way it’s covering our conversation and how personal it might get if Burrows keeps blabbering his big fat mouth.

Propping himself onto his elbows, Burrows brings himself a little closer to me as I stand next to the cushioned table he’s lying on.

“But I fucked up.”

“Everyone fucked up,” I clarify. “It was a stupid bet made by a bunch of stupid boys. That’s it. But I’m not holding onto it, and neither should you.”

“Yeah, well, I am holding onto it,” he announces.

“Yeah, well, you shouldn’t be.”

I dig my fingers into the muscles on either side of his knee, hoping it’ll shut him up and I can get this thing over with as quickly as possible. His expression pinches in discomfort, and he hangs his head, letting out a slow breath.

Oh, physical therapy, you heartless bitch. I kind of love you right now.

“Helps that I get to take it out on you,” I joke, hoping my sarcasm will lighten the mood.

With a low chuckle, he looks up at me again, and his dark eyes pin me in place. “I still like you, Blake.”

“Nope.” I shake my head and keep my attention on his leg while avoiding his gaze at all costs.

I really don’t want to have this conversation.

“I’m serious,” Burrows says. “I like––”

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