Page 22 of Run For Me
The guy who picked up my pencil when it rolled onto the floor.
It’s him.
If I don’t get a hold of this soon, I’m going to be deemed insane.
I grab my notebook and phone in one hand while picking up my messenger bag with the other to shove everything inside and quickly make my way through the stacks and to the exit.
Dinner is waiting for me when I get home, along with a smiling Sam.
“Hey, baby,” he greets, kissing my cheek. “I made Chicken Mozambique for dinner.”
I raise a brow. “You went shopping?” I definitely didn’t have any chicken here. Probably not whatever else he needed, either.
“I did. Got a few things.” He shrugs and pulls two plates from the cabinet. I walk over to the fridge and pull it open, my jaw dropping when I see how full it is.
“A few?” He shrugs and plates the food. “Sam, I hope you plan on eating this while you’re here, otherwise it’ll go bad after you leave.”
“I got plenty of things that’ll last. You should eat better anyway.”
This is something he’s been telling me for years. It’s not that I have a problem with eating healthy, or even better than what I am, I just don’t enjoy cooking.
“Come on. Let’s eat,” he tells me, walking over to the table with a plate in each hand.
As we eat, he asks me questions about my day. We talk about my classes and the work I have to do. I ask him what he did all day, and he tells me he went shopping, went for a run, did some gaming, and cooked dinner.
“Damn, I totally forgot I wanted to grab a laptop today.” I check the clock on the wall, and Sam’s head swings the same way.
“Looks like we have time. I can drive us. Just tell me where you want to go.”
“You don’t have to. I can go by myself.”
He frowns, letting out a sigh. “Sailor, what is going on with you?”
“Nothing.” The word comes out too quickly, and he gives me a look that tells me he doesn’t believe me.
I absolutely cannot tell him what is going on with me. I can’t tell him about how I’ve been rethinking my feelings for him sincehe told me he moved out here, and even more so after he showed up. I can’t tell him I’ve been convincing myself of all the reasons I should make this work because I don’t feel the way I did but I want to—that even sitting here with him over dinner is forced. And I definitely can’t tell him about the journal thief—
“I’ve just had a weird day, is all.”
“Weird how?” His brow furrows.
“Just… I don’t know, the stuff with my journal.”
“You still haven’t found it?”
I shake my head.
He sighs, putting down his fork. “Okay, well, I can see how that would rattle you. It meant a lot to you, I get that, but you know I don’t just mean today. You’ve been… I don’t know, distant? For a while now. If something is going on, something with us, you can tell me.” He places his hand on mine and I stare down at where he’s touching me.
No sparks. No tingles. No warmth.
Just itchy. Like the wool sweater my mother made me wear every Christmas. I hated it. And I don’t like this either.
“There’s not,” I say automatically, having no idea why I say it. He gave me the opportunity to tell him how I’m feeling. He started the conversation, I could have ended it, but I didn’t. Why the hell can’t I just tell him how I feel?
My phone dings from in my bag… one, two, three times in a row, all from Surge.
Sam’s eyes narrow slightly before he turns to glance toward the couch, where my bag is.
