Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

Van

I wake up to the feeling of cold stealing over me, like someone just ripped a blanket away from me, leaving me bare. Wouldn't be the first time. I shiver and turn, reaching for something or someone and finding nothing.

"Eli, is that you? Not funny, man."

He would be the one to do it. Maybe Alec? He seems to enjoy sneaking in people's hotel rooms to mess with them. He's done it to Nathan more than once when he slept through alarms.

But when I crack open my bleary eyes, I realize I'm not on the road with the guys. I'm at the beachfront resort. And I have no reason to be cold because the bed sheets are pulled up to my chin.

The bed sheets.

Not the blanket from the couch, where I spent most of the week sleeping.

No—I'm in the massive bed.

Amelia's bed.

My head jerks to the side, painfully letting me know I have a crick in my neck. Another crick. The same crick. Who knows at this point.

The other side of the bed is empty. There's an indentation in the pillow next to mine, and the sheets are pulled back like Amelia got out in a hurry. When I set my palm down, the sheets are cold.

My brain is still foggy, but the events of the night before come back to me, a flood of happy memories. Kissing Amelia on the beach. Dancing with the wedding party.

And then …

I bite my lip over a smile.

"Mills?" I call, my voice a gruff morning rumble.

The last few mornings, I woke to the smell of coffee, but it's not there now. Just the faint citrus scent from Amelia's pillow. I lean over, inhaling as my eyes flutter closed.

"Amelia?" I call again, even as I notice the unnatural stillness, the reverberating quiet.

A hazy dread settles over me like smog as I climb out of bed, pulling a pair of shorts on over my briefs. The bathroom door is ajar, and my unease settles slightly as I see Amelia's toiletries still on the counter.

She hasn't left.

Why would I assume she had?

I shake my head. She wouldn't go. Not after this week, after last night. She probably went to get us breakfast. A surprise for our last morning.

Our last morning.

Yesterday, I woke up with dread thinking about leaving. Now … hope buoys me. There will be complications, of course, like talking to Coach—Amelia's dad—whom I've been ignoring now for days, other than quick texts saying things are fine. He won't be happy but … I'll make it work. I'll tell him how I feel, convince him it's not some kind of fluke. Amelia will help.

It will be fine.

When I pick up my phone, opening our text thread, I'm surprised to see a new one from him. It didn't show up as unread, so I must have opened it last night.

Thanks for babysitting Amelia, it reads. I owe you one. Consider your old spot yours again. I'm putting Dominik back in his line.

That's … good, I guess. But I'm surprised to find I don't actually care about my position. What I really don't like is him still thinking this week was me babysitting . I'll have to tell him that too—I didn't come here for him.

I came for her.

Thoughts of Amelia have my stomach swooping happily. I need to see her. To have my fingertips on her skin, my mouth on hers again. When she gets back, I hope she doesn't mind if breakfast is not what I'm in the mood for.

Feeling better with every step, I saunter out of the bedroom, scratching my stomach with a yawn. I scan the room, heading for the table, where I can see a folded paper, ripped right from Amelia's yellow notebook by the looks of it.

Smiling, I pick up the folded paper with Van in loopy cursive across the front. Even her handwriting is cute. I shake my head grinning as I wonder how she turned me into a sentimental schmuck so fast. The guys will never let me live this down.

No regrets.

Other than waking up alone. If it were me, spending the day in bed with room service sounds better than getting dressed to hunt down breakfast.

But Amelia probably has some surprise in store, something to celebrate?—

My thoughts skid to a halt and my smile slips away as I read the note.

Van,

Didn't mean to snoop but saw my dad's text. You can consider your babysitting job officially over. Enjoy having your spot back. Last night was clearly a mistake.

Don't worry about me. I'll get home and find a way to pay you back everything I owe you.

-A

My jaw clenches as I read it a second time, understanding washing over me. Amelia read her dad's text and assumed his words were true.

That I came here on her father's orders to win back my spot on the line with Eli and Logan.

Bitterness rises like a stench in my nostrils. Shouldn't she have woken me up to ask if it's true?

Would you have? a voice retorts in my head. Or would you have believed the words of a man you've known your whole life, trusted him over a man you spent a few days with?

I'm hurt and angry, but I also don't blame Amelia. Only myself. I should have told her father no. Told him I was already coming with Amelia, even if that risked his ire.

Then I should have told Amelia he asked. Whatever impact it would have had on the two of them, that's their issue to work out.

I don't regret any of my other actions. Not even last night.

But she called it a mistake .

My fist crumples the paper before I read it a third time. I hurl it toward the balcony, but even balled up, the paper is light and barely clears the end of the table, rolling unevenly to a stop somewhere underneath the sofa.

I work to unclench my fists, then breathe deeply, slowly, placing my hands on the table and spreading my fingertips wide.

She's gone. Amelia's gone, leaving me behind like a skin she's shed.

Deep breaths , I remind myself, but they're ragged. Unsteady. A stitch forms in my side as though I've been sprinting with no warmup. You can fix this when you get back.

But it doesn't feel very fixable. Maybe because it was so delicate to begin with. I scrub a hand down my face.

What can I expect after only a few days together? Especially considering the way those days started.

But I'm not ready to give up.

I always said if I found the right woman, I'd make it work. I won't give up.

I can come up with a plan.

I can …

I can …

My mind is blank. Because I'm not a planner. And I have no idea how to fix the mess I made. The mess we made, Mills and I.

My hands clench again. I need something else to throw. Something more substantial than a little ball of paper.

This moment feels like the gotcha at the end of a prank. The I told you so after not listening to good advice.

It's the worst case of I should have known better of my life—and there have been a lot of those.

My stomach sours, a bitter taste coating my tongue as I work to swallow.

This shouldn't matter so much , I tell myself. But it does. It's all that matters.

And just how much it matters hits me as I slide the ring off my left hand, narrowing my eyes at the cheap gold band, like it's somehow to blame.

I won't be needing this anymore.

Only, I can't set the ring down. I don't want to.

So, I stare at the wedding band Amelia and I picked out at the only place open late last night--the most touristy gift shop in the resort, barely a step above the stores selling spray-painted shirts and hermit crabs. Instead of buying Amelia a matching one, she asked me to switch her mother's ring to her other hand. I remember the way her hand shook when I did it and her brilliant smile afterward.

Swallowing down a knot in my throat, I grab my suitcase and start to pack.

Guess it's a good thing we didn't go out and get matching tattoos.