Page 70 of Fight Or Flight

“What the fuck, Lindsay?” Derek yelled, still struggling in Adam’s grip. “Don’t you get it? He doesn’t want you.”

“Shut up, Derek!” she said.

“He knows, you ditz,” Derek said, his whole disgusting face morphing into sinister enjoyment.

Lindsay froze, then swayed on her heels. “W-what?”

“Ethan knows you cheated on him with me,” he said in the loudest possible voice. Then, because he was the worst human on earth, he added, “In the back seat of his truck.”

There were literal gasps from the crowd behind him. Lindsay looked up at Ethan, then around at the crowd, before letting out a wail and running off.

Before she was even out of sight, Derek started laughing.

“You’re such a little fuckwad,” Adam said. He kicked out Derek’s ankle, making him fall to the ground, then started dragging him across the pavement toward the parking lot. “You know you’re off the team, right?”

“Good! I don’t want to be on your fucking team, anyway! You think you’re so much better than everyone because you own half the town . . .”

Derek continued screaming insults as Adam dragged him around the side of the bar, and his voice quieted in the distance. Ethan was about to go with them to make sure Adam would be okay when Max, Jake, and Connor—three of his teammates in matching horrible shirts—pushed through the crowd and followed them around the bar.

Ethan took a deep breath and looked around. The crowd had dispersed, giving him glances with varying degrees of pity that made him want to puke. This was exactly what he’d been trying to avoid.

“You okay?” Natalie asked, appearing behind him with concern pulling at her eyes.

“Uh, yeah.”

“I know that was . . . awkward, but at least the truth is out. Right? No more elephant following you around town.”

“I guess. I just . . . don’t know what to do now.”

She nodded, looked around at people still staring at him, then back. “Well, if I were you, I’d run.”

He thought for a moment. “You know, I think running is a great idea. Wanna come home with me?”

Natalie’s grin stretched over her face, lit from within. “Yes.”

And just like that, his night did a one-eighty.

Ethan pushed open his front door, then stepped aside so Natalie could go in. She toed off her sandals and took a few steps into his house, taking it all in.

“This isn’t at all how I pictured your home.”

He dropped his baseball bag on the floor in the corner, then hung his keys up on a single silver hook he’d drilled into the wall next to the closet. “You’ve pictured my home?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

He looked around the house the way she did, trying to see it objectively. It was a nice enough place. Older, but he’d done a lot of work to it already. He’d replaced the horrible pink carpet with oak floors, painted all the walls, redone the bathroom, and replaced the kitchen cupboards, countertops, and appliances.

But he’d painted all the walls the same boring beige colour, had barely any furniture, and had never bothered with curtains, art, or any of the things that might have given off the impression that an actual person lived there.

“How often did you picture it?” he asked, taking off his shoes.

“Mmm . . . I’ve definitely given it more thought than I should have.” She said it like a confession, and it made the glue holding Ethan’s heart together harden a bit more.

“So you don’t like my house?”

“It’s not that I don’t like it. It’s . . . kinda like your shirt.” She ran her hand over the black letters, pausing over his heart and resting there. “It’s just not you. It’s . . . boring.”

“The shirt is boring?” he laughed, reaching up and resting his hand over hers.

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