Page 98 of Ours to Lose
None of it should have shocked me. Even before he got hurt, there was always a chance he’d lose the tournament. A chance he’d need to find an opportunity somewhere else.
It was one of the reasons what we’d been doing felt safe. Because he was always going to leave, the way he always had. Here for short bursts, then off on another boxing adventure, doing what he loved. He wouldn’t be leavingme; he’d just be leaving.
Yet as soon as Diego had said it, I’d turned to Evan and seen the same overflow of emotions in his eyes he no doubt saw in mine. Our hope bursting and hearts breaking.
Because deep down, even if Gabe couldn’t fight, we’d still hoped he would stay.
Back at my apartment, I skimmed through my streaming services, trying to find something that would hold my scattered attention enough to keep me from checking my phone every thirty seconds. It was almost seven, and I’d heard nothing from Gabe.
Diego had said he’d gone to the hospital, but there’d been no text. No call. No word about his shoulder or mention of the job. No form of communication at all since his message the day before saying he wanted to be alone.
Was he okay? In shock? Devastated about the gym? Ecstatic about the job offer? Bleeding out in a dark alley after being mugged on the street?
I could text him and ask. See if he wanted to talk.
But what if that made it worse? What if he felt like I was hovering and making this about me instead of giving him the space he needed?
He knew where I was if he wanted me. Had known he could reach out since way before New Year’s, and I hadn’t had to chase him down for it to happen. No point in that changing just because we’d slept together.
Something snagged in my chest, and I slammed whatever door tried to open firmly shut. There’d be no thinking about what might have been or revisiting memories and wishing for more. No feeling bad for myself when this was what I’d signed up for from the start—casual and temporary.
I abandoned the streaming services and sprawled across my couch, clicking into my email on my phone. I paused when I spotted the new sous-chef application in my inbox.
It was the worker from the Froyo shop. Mackenzie Bishop. Not only did she—or rather they—actually apply, but their experience was solid. They didn’t have a lot of it, still fairly new out of culinary school, but that they’d been to culinary school at all was a pleasant surprise, and in some ways, the lack of experience was better. Made them a fresher slate, still willing to learn.
I hit send on my reply to schedule an interview as a knock came at my door. My neighbor must have gotten more of my mail. That, or my landlord wanted to inform me about upcoming building maintenance.
I pulled out my hair tie and combed my fingers through the strands in an attempt to look presentable in my pink pineapple pajama pants. Not that anyone would judge me for them on a Sunday evening, but I also wasn’t wearing a bra, and I didn’t know how obvious that was through this shirt.
Except it wasn’t my landlord I saw through the peephole. My pulse skidded as I swung the door open.
Gabe filled the doorway, his hunched shoulders making him seem smaller than usual. Defeated. Like someone had punctured him with a thumbtack, and all his air had seeped out.
My heart thumped faster as I stepped aside. “Do you want to come in?”
He drank me in with his darkened gaze before nodding, his silence following him across the threshold like a presence I wished I could lock out. It loomed behind us as we made our way to the living room.
“Can I get you anything?” I asked, no longer able to stand it. “Water? Have you eaten?”
“At the hospital,” he said, his voice a low rasp. It folded around me the way I wanted to wrap my arms around him. “I meant to text you while I was there, but my phone died. I guess I forgot to charge it last night.” He sounded as beaten as his body must have been. Too drained to feel much of anything.
“It’s okay,” I said as I sat, focusing on the fact that he was here. That mattered most to me right now.
He dropped to the opposite cushion like he could no longer carry his weight, his elbows crashing to his knees.
I thought back to the last time we sat on this couch, the night I asked him to have sex with me. My nerves had been a living thing under my skin, warring with my desire, and he’d comforted them both. Allowed me to feel them fully. Eased me into asking for what I wanted.
It was my turn to comfort him.
“Is your shoulder okay?”
He stared at the vase of tulips on my coffee table. I wasn’t sure he actually saw them.
“They’re recommending surgery,” he finally said. “Not right away. Coach Dotson has a guy he’s going to put me in touch with. A shoulder specialist he says is good.”
“Coach Dotson is who drove you to the hospital? The Olympic coach?” I ignored the wooden skewer lodged in my chest.
He nodded, still looking at the flowers. That I couldn’t see his eyes bothered me as much as his silence had.
