Page 69 of Composed
I rack my brain, trying to pinpoint the exact moment it all went wrong.
Things were going well between Cole and me. The music was flowing, the tension light. It was … nice. Until it wasn’t.
Nothing sticks out. No sudden shift, no clear reason for his mood to drop so fast.
My engine idles.
I tighten my hands around the steering wheel. Heat blasts through the vents, swaying the orange-scented air freshener dangling around the mirror. I glance toward the hotel but can’t bring myself to get out of the car.
Instead, I snag my phone and pull up my texts.
I really should just go inside, debrief with Riley, and call it a night.
I don’t.
Instead, I open a thread from a couple weeks ago and tap out a message.
Know a good place to skate around here?
Slow seconds stretch into minutes as the text goes unanswered.
The hum of Bad Omens filling the car keeps me company while I stare down at the black screen.
My knee bounces.
I close my eyes and sigh.
Guess everyone’s agreed shutting me out is the way to go today. Not like I can blame them.
I grab my bag from the passenger footwell and start to turn the key when my phone vibrates. Saint doesn't bother with small talk—no hi, how are you, or why, what’s up?—just a postcode sent in reply.
I punch it into the sat nav, shoot a quick text to Riley so she won’t worry, and shift the car into reverse.
The park is quiet when I pull up.
A couple teenagers mill about the grass, drinks in their hands, cigarettes dangling between their teeth.
My mouth tilts as I roll past them on my board. The scene is reminiscent of too many moments in my life where I was doing the same back home.
I spot the metal ramps and steer myself in that direction, pushing the volume on my phone until the only thing I can hear is the music pouring through my headphones.
Rolling up the half-pipe, I drop my knees and twist the board beneath my feet when I reach the top. Wind whips my hair, slicking it to my lip-gloss. I roll back down, only to pause when I spot a figure leaning against the quarter-pipe.
Shrouded in shadows, hood tugged deep over his forehead, a lit cigarette burning between his teeth, Saint watches me.
I kick the board into my hand, tug my headphones off, and bridge the distance between us. “What are you doing here?”
“Not a fucking clue.” He cocks his head, a smirk on his lips.
He jumps up on top of the ledge, his legs kicking out in front of him.
I eye the spot next to him warily.
He chuckles. “Come on, Rix. I won’t bite.”
“That remains to be seen.” I hand him my board before planting my hands against the edge and hoisting myself up. He offers me a joint and I shake my head. “No, thanks. I’m driving.”
“When did you get boring?” he teases.
