Page 105 of Caught Up In You

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” I lean back in my chair and try to relax, like I need to prove it to her.

“Right. Fine,” she says, but I can tell she doesn’t believe me. She holds out her hand. “Give me that phone.”

I sigh. “Fine.”

“Seriously, what’s going on with you? You’ve been snappish with the front desk staff, and last night I drove by after dinner and your car was still here. And while I appreciate you taking thephone for the entire week of our anniversary, you seem off.” She pauses, then grins. “Are you not getting laid anymore?”

“Out,” I groan, pointing at the door.

“Try to relax this weekend, okay? Like, for-real relax, not whatever high school theater production version of relaxing you’re doing,” she says, waving her hand at my slumped form. “Remember, Owen, the body keeps the score.”

And fuck, I know that. My body is in knots. I’ve been sleeping like shit for weeks. Muscles in my back that I didn’t even know existed ache. Last night, in a fit of insomnia at three a.m., I decided my pillows were shot and ordered all new ones and a memory foam mattress topper.

I pull out my phone and check the shipping. They should arrive tomorrow, so hopefully a decent night’s sleep is only a day away.

Hopefully a decent night’s sleep is what I need to get back to normal.

Hopefully there’s a normal to get back to.

August 5

It’s Saturday night, and my brothers are all at the Half Pint. I told them I needed to work on a medical conference proposal, so now I’m home alone, searching the internet for medical conferences I can attend. Honestly, writing up a conference proposal sounds like a really good distraction.

This is what my life has become.

Is this what normal was before Wyatt? Was I extremely boring? Or am I being punished with this new pathetic normalfor thinking I could be what Wyatt needed? Punished for being so wrong that I wrecked her?

I’m deep in the American Medical Association website when my phone lights up with a call from Francie.

A call, not a text.

My breath hitches as I answer. “What’s up, Frank?”

“How’s Wyatt?” That’s her greeting. And from the flatness of her voice, I realize I’ve been caught.

Francie has been busy with work and wedding planning these last few weeks, so we haven’t talked much, and I’ve been able to keep the truth to myself. I haven’t lied, only avoided.

“What?” I ask, the word sticking in my throat.

“How’s. Wyatt.”

“She’s, uh…she’s fine.”

“I knew it!” Francie cries.

“Knew what?”

“Something happened. I can tell. Your texts have been too careful, and you haven’t brought her up at all. Before, it was allWyatt thisandWyatt that, and suddenly there’s nothing. Something happened, didn’t it? Don’t you dare lie to me, Owen McBride.”

I consider lying, but even though the thought makes my stomach clench. I’ve been telling so many lies lately, desperately trying to find some sense of normalcy again. So many lies, and not one of them has helped. Each one just feels like another stone in my pocket, weighing me down.

So for once, I go with the truth.

“We’re not together anymore.”

There’s silence on the other end of the line. I brace for the explosion I know is coming.

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