Page 102 of Shift Change

I’d been afraid he’d leave me first, and I still was. The fear hadn’t gone anywhere. It had been welded into me since the day my mom walked out and never looked back.

But that wasn’t Chuck. He never put himself ahead of me. He’d never ignored me or made me feel small and unworthy. Even when I pushed him away, he didn’t yell or call me names. Although I’d hurt him terribly, he still looked at me like I mattered.

Maybe that’s the difference. My parents checked out without a second thought, but not Chuck. He would have probably still been fighting for me if I hadn’t practically walked him to the door.

“What the fuck did I do? You should’ve seen how he looked when he left.” My voice was hollow, not because I wasn’t feeling things, but because I was feeling too much.

Abby shifted. “You can fix it. Dog loves you.”

I raised my head and looked at him. “I’ve messed everything up. He probably won’t even talk to me.”

“Why not find out?” Logan asked. “I think you’re wrong, but if he won’t talk now, wait until he will. He’s not the only one who’s stubborn.”

Riley scooted forward. “Logan’s right. Don’t sit here thinking the worst. You made a mistake, but you’re lucky because you made it with someone who loves you. It doesn’t have to be permanent.”

I nodded. Sadly, knowing I’d screwed up didn’t mean I knew how to fix it. What if I went charging back in and said the wrong thing? Could I hurt Chuck more and ruin whatever sliver of hope might still exist?

“I need time,” I said. “Instead of being my usual impulsive, fuck-up self, I’ve got to figure out how to approach this without making it worse.”

“That’s fair,” Logan said, “but don’t wait long. These things don’t improve over time.”

Riley nodded. “We’ve got you, Holky. Don’t get stuck in your head.”

Abby slapped my shoulder hard enough to make me grunt. “Don’t be dumbass. Enough of being idiot.”

I tried to laugh, but it may have sounded more like a sob. “No promises.”

36

mad dog

Rush hour traffic was a nightmare—creepforward a car length, then slam to a stop and sit like a chump while some asshole blocked the intersection. After the third cycle of this bullshit, I smacked the steering wheel so hard my palm stung. “Come on,” I yelled, like the cars ahead could hear me. Nate didn’t know I was on my way, but every passing minute gave him more time to dig into the stupid idea that he was somehow protecting me by breaking both our hearts.

I jabbed at my phone and pulled up the relaxing playlist I usually saved for post-game recovery or sleepless nights. While soft jazz filled the car, I took some deep breaths, but it was useless. All I could see was Nate’s face when I left last night, the stubborn set of his jaw and the pain in his eyes. Instead of the music, I heard the deafening silence when he watched me leave.

God, what if he won’t even let me in?

I couldn’t go there. I’d already let him push me aside once, and that had been a mistake. He was scared, and instead of reaching for me, he’d shoved me away. This time, I wouldn’t let his fear take over. Even if it turned into a fight, I would stand my ground and make damn sure he listened to me.

When I turned onto Nate’s street, I pulled to the curb and killed the engine. Without the distraction of traffic, there was nothing left to face but the reason I was there. Nate and I loved each other. We were good together, no matter what twisted shit he’d convinced himself was true. I wasn’t the type to back down, on the ice or in life, and I wasn’t about to start now. If he couldn’t think clearly enough to fight for us, then I needed to live up to my place as his boyfriend and think for both of us.

My mission was not simply to win him back, but to rescue us both from hell. I sat up and hit the start button. Blast off.

His car wasn’t in the driveway, but he usually parked in the garage. Although I had a remote, opening the door felt too intrusive, so I got out and walked to the front door. I rang the bell and tried to visualize what might happen. If he didn’t answer, I’d let myself in. If he tried to block me, I’d shove past him. Those options were certainly more intrusive than opening the garage, but fuck it. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

After two unanswered tries, I gave up and punched in the door code. The lock disengaged with a soft click, and I stepped inside. The house was as dark and quiet as a mausoleum.

“Nate?” My voice echoed, too loud in the stillness.

He didn’t answer. If he’d slept as badly as I did last night, maybe he’d crashed in his room, but the air felt wrong—too heavy. I moved through the house, checking room by room, but found no sign of him, not even an abandoned hoodie. I went into the kitchen, which was too neat. There wasn’t even a used glass by the sink.

My throat went dry, and even swallowing felt like work. Heart pounding, I turned in a slow circle, ready to head downstairs, until I caught a glimpse through the French doors. Nate was in the garden, stretched out on the chaise I always sat in.

His eyes were closed, and he was still, with one arm draped across his middle and the other slack at his side. My pulse kicked harder, and I knew I had to go to him. Outside, for an awful second, I thought he might not wake at all. I knelt beside him and kept my voice low. “Why are you out here without a jacket, sweets? It’s cold.”

Nothing, not even a twitch.

I touched his arm. “Nate?”

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