7. Stallone

seven

Stallone

I wake up abruptly with sweat pouring off my chest. The sunrays peek under my window’s pale shade, revealing I’ve slept to a normal time.

I blink.

This is a strange anomaly, but wonderful, as I can already tell I’m more rested than normal. My joints move with an ease they haven’t had in a long time, and I spring up.

It’s also bad because Ryson will be waiting for me.

I scurry to get dressed while Lucky hangs back in the hall, pacing between the bathroom and the kitchen. He’s not quite sure what to think about our change of routine. I’m in such a hurry, I don’t have time to think about it either and pull up to Ryson’s cabin with a screech of my brakes.

Ryson’s smile is pressing as he hops in and patiently waits for Lucky to plop on his lap. He gives me the side-eye. “Did you go out last night?”

“No.” Instant irritation kills my grin, and I take a defensive tone. “I actually slept for once.”

“Ah, too bad.” His expression falls to a woeful one as his hand lazily pets Lucky.

“What do you mean it’s too bad I slept?” I’m immediately annoyed, as Ryson does not know what I’ve been through this year. He’s never had a relationship that lasted longer than a slow country western song, and he surely doesn’t know what it's like to have your fiancée leave you right before the wedding. A wedding we took a year to plan together, and all our friends and family were already in town, ready to help us celebrate.

“Not that it’s bad you slept.” His eyes roll, but his voice softens. “Just that I thought maybe you went out for once.”

“What does it matter?” I clench the steering wheel and peel out of his driveway. Everyone has a timeline for me. They all think I should move on, but what they don’t know is I have my own timeline: one that says, I don’t care if I ever move on.

“Have you even gone on one date yet?” He stares forward, as if he knows not to dare challenge that question with direct eye contact.

Tongue-tied, fire ignites in my chest, and I stomp on the brakes, bringing my truck to a screeching halt before I managed to blurt, “What do you want from me?” I glare at him like he’s my nagging mother, and not the little brother who I helped raise.

“I want you to be happy.” His dark eyes that match mine level with me. “You deserve it.”

I swallow, as he has no idea what I deserve, and I steer the wheel straight again and press on the accelerator, grumbling, “Mind your own business.”

We are silent until we get to the jobsite, and I don’t hesitate to jump out of the truck to run to the timber crane. I can’t wait to be alone, and I mutter, “Ryson doesn’t have a clue what will make me happy.”