Page 6 of Not Made to Last

I’m merely his disappointment.

4

Olivia

“I hope you don’t have any plans tonight,” Rhys says as we approach him standing by the nurse’s station. “We’re going to be here a while.” Without waiting for a response, he leads us to a row of seats where Max plops down on a chair, his eyelids heavy. I take the seat beside him.

Luckily, our minor incident didn’t affect Max as much as I thought it would. But he’s tired now. Beyond it. And honestly, so am I. I didn’t expect my hit-and-stay victim to actually accept my offer to drive him here, and I definitely didn’t expect to have to wait. Rhys is aGarrett, and that means something.

Rhys is still standing, hands at his sides as he looks around the space. With his eyes busy elsewhere, I allow myself a moment to take him in.

To really,trulylook at him.

I’d only ever seen pictures of him clean-shaven. Now, he’s got the later stages of what I would call scruff. It’s the same dirty blond as the short, almost crew-cut style that’s on his head.

He looks older than his nineteen years.

Tougher.

And all the above is only magnified by the harsh overhead lights that create shadows across his features, highlighting the multiple tiny, almost inconspicuous, scars on his face.

The first time Rhys was brought to my attention, I assumed he was “troubled.” The kind of problematic over-privileged kid who spent his free time getting off on using random people as punching bags for shits and gigs. Or, more than likely, to see if it would get his parents’ attention.

I was wrong on all accounts.

As far as I know, he’s never been disciplined for fighting at school, or outside of it, for that matter. In fact, the only time I’m aware of any reprimands handed to him by St. Luke’s was for some bullshit prank that involved a child-sized dildo and some heavy-duty superglue on the front doors of the most prestigious high school in all of North Carolina—his own.

Unfortunately for him, his urge to pull such stupid antics hit right before the regional semifinals. It cost him a game and his beloved team a possible championship.

The day after the loss, a video of him being interviewed by a local news station circulated like wildfire, went viral on most social media. When asked if he regretted his actions, Rhys took a moment to respond, looking pensive, before asking the interviewer if he thought a hundred unarmed men could take on an adult-size gorilla.

To anyone else watching it, he came off as aloof, almost unsympathetic. It showed Rhys as just another rich, entitled, fuckboy idiot who gave very little shits about his life, especially his team. But I knew better. I knewhimbetter. His team was everything to him, though he’d never admit it to anyone.

Suddenly, Rhys’s eyes flick down to mine, and I quickly look away, try to refocus on the present. On Max. He’s holding on to my arm, his eyes half-hooded, fighting to stay awake. “Lie down,bud,” I tell him, helping him kick off his flip-flops. He does as I say, while I grab his iPad and headphones from his backpack for him. When I look up again, Rhys is gone… back to the nurse’s station. It’s clear he asks something of them, because they nod enthusiastically at whatever he says, and one disappears through the large double doors, returning a moment later with a hospital-issued blanket. Without a word, Rhys approaches and—wordlessly—covers Max with the blanket, making sure it surrounds his entire body. He stands to full height again before reaching behind him and grasping the back of his hoodie. He lifts the hem higher, higher, exposing the tanned skin covering his flat, toned stomach and the smattering of hairs that lead to?—

I look away.

Ignore the way my heart flies to my throat.

It’s nothing, I convince myself.

This reaction?

Completely normal.

Rhys’s hoodie feels warm on my bare legs when he unceremoniously drops it on my lap. Then he sits down beside me, his arm touching mine.

“Umm…” I look from the hoodie to him.

“You’re cold.” It’s not a question.

“I’m fine,” I lie. Truth is, the moment we walked into the building, the harsh air-conditioning pricked at my skin and turned my flesh to ice.

Rhys half turns to me, his gray Nike shirt shifting, pulling tight across his muscled chest. The heat of his hand circles my wrist, spreading through my bloodline. He’s gentle when he lifts my arm, and I hold my breath, watching those cool gray eyes of his as they lock on mine. Then, slowly, he runs a finger across the length of my arm, exposing my lies as more goosebumps rise, crawl across my skin. “Wear the damn hoodie.”

I glare at him.

He glares back.

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