Page 74 of Delicate Storm

“Great. Good.” The relief in Dad’s voice makes me smile. I’ll suffer the hardship for him. Although, let’s be honest, it’s not going to be that difficult.

“Anyway,” Dad continues, “you called me and I took over. What’s up?”

“It’s not important.” Now is not the time. “We can chat at dinner later in the week.”

“Are you sure?”

“Definitely. You have a lot going on.” And I need him to have a clear head when I tell him what I know.

“Okay, but you know I’m always here for you, right?”

“I do. Thank you.”

I hang up and I’ve just grabbed my bag to head out for a walk when an old friend texts me a link to a news headline. It’s not hard to guess who it’s going to feature.

My stomach knots as I click on the link, and when I read it, I feel sick.

So it begins.

Sources at Coastal Media say they’ve received never before seen intimate photos of Paige D’Angelo and Christian Mikkleson. The two have confirmed they remain friends. But are we about to find out what happened to send Paige running?

I’m on edge for the next few days, waiting for my intimate photos to be broadcast to strangers. Ironic, really, considering I did a paid photo shoot full of intimate photos that I love having out in the world.

But this feels icky.

If they’re the photos I’m imagining them to be then they’re not at all the tasteful images the magazine took. No, these are raw and somewhat dirty. There’s nothing pornographic. It’s not like we filmed a sex tape. But Christian and I had an interesting sex life. And sending each other photos was just one of the games we played.

And despite what they think, unless it’s the photo Christian sent me, then I have no doubt the images Coastal Media claims to have arenotof me and Christian at all. They’re me with other guys and Christian with other girls. Intimate poses, but innocent despite how they look.

At least mine were.

I always assumed his photos were too, but in hindsight, that may have been naive on my part. It was supposed to be a joke. Foreplay. A way to wind each other up to see who got jealous first. It made for incredible sex afterward. And I’m not at allashamed of it. But now that it could affect the people I love, a little part of me regrets it.

Of course, I have the original photos on my phone and could easily prove what they are, but if no one believes the story behind the images, then I’m the bad guy. Suddenly the world isn’t just seeing photos of my life with my ex-boyfriend, but I look like the girl that cheated on her boyfriend multiple times and documented it with photo evidence.

And that’s so much worse.

Maybe I should have seen that coming.

Needing a distraction, I head to the gym after avoiding it for the past couple of weeks. For obvious reasons. And when I walk in, the obvious reason is lifting weights off the rack, his muscles bulging beneath his tee, his signature cap pulled low on his brow, confusing me until I realize we’re not alone.

Forcing my gaze away from Easton, I dump my bag in the corner of the gym and smile at the stranger on the treadmill.

I keep my eyes on my mat as I get ready for my warm-up stretches and try to ignore the way my heart races just thinking about the possibility of Easton watching me.

As my pulse spikes, I work through a few yoga moves on the floor, slowly stretching my body, pushing through the tightness and pain.

But while my eyes focus on the task at hand, my mind runs wild, replaying our previous encounters, imagining the things Easton would do to me if we were alone, and in another life.

When I’m done on the mat, I internally laugh at myself for acting so crazy, but when I stand up to stretch my arms, my eyes lock on Easton’s in the mirror, his gaze feral beneath his cap.

He feels the same.

For the next painful hour, we work out in silence, but our lingering looks speak volumes. Another two gym goers arrive,while the first one leaves, but it’s like neither of us wants to break the spell, because no matter how tired I am, I can’t leave.

I lift weights—tiny ones compared to Easton’s—and jog on the treadmill. I work my arms, my legs, even my goddamn pelvic floor, only that’s not intentional. No, that’s getting a workout from how much I’m clenching, trying to dull the ache pulsing between my legs.

I want him. He wants me. But we’ve made our bed and now we have to lie in it.

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